


Satin and Lace

by SayNotoWritersBlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comedy, Drama, F/M, Mystery, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-08 03:04:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 45,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SayNotoWritersBlock/pseuds/SayNotoWritersBlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Molly Hooper discovers the body of her neighbor, she realizes people aren't what they seem. </p><p>Takes place one year after Sherlock returns from the dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters are not mine. The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don't get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing!
> 
> This story is un-betaed.

**PROLOGUE…**

The music throbbed as the woman circled her hips, inches from the rotund man’s obvious erection. While it was quite clear where his thoughts were turned, her plastered smile and quick winks gave no indication of the woman’s true thoughts.

_“It’s just a job; that’s all this is. All it ever is.”_ That mantra probably didn’t work for a lot of people but it seemed to keep Samantha, stage name Satin N. Lace, going.

As her hips moved, Satin calculated exactly how much of her mortgage this man’s money will, and had, paid off. The man’s hands lifted toward her generous, naked breasts but she smirked and grabbed them, pushing them to the cushions beside him. “Nah, ah…” Satin purred, turning so her naked bum caressed his erection, somewhat gagging at the slight wetness on his pants. “Georgie, you remember the rules. No hands.” She turned back around and placed her foot on the cushion beside him. “The moment you touch, this dance is over…” The man’s meaty, wet tongue left his mouth and licked his lips at the proximity of her naked core to his mouth. Of course he was too busy drooling to realize she was as dry as a bone. The man, just like all the others, revolted her. 

His fee of $3k was the only spark of excitement in that room.

Thankfully, with a generous bend of her bum in his face, the dance was over. Samantha knew she would see him in two weeks. They had a standing appointment. 

“Ohhh Saaatin….” Georgie groaned as he came, right there in his pants. Like he always did. Satin hid her shivers of disgust as she moved away. The sudden smell of his body odor and release overcame the room and she turned quickly toward the bathroom in the hallway hidden discretely behind Chinese screens. Satin had learned after the first dance to install outlet air fresheners to mask the disgusting essence of the insanely rich man; he was in prime nauseating form. Samantha shut the door, locking out the throbbing of muffled music, and promptly threw up. She gathered herself, cleaned up and wrapped herself in the black silk robe she kept behind the door. Just as she rounded the corner Samantha heard a man arguing with Georgie.

“Where’s the money Georgie?”

“I don’t have it! But give me a chance…” Georgie was desperately pleading with the newcomer whose back was to Samantha.

“No second chances Georgie. Falcon…” _Falcon?_ Samantha rolled the name around in her head for a moment, trying to remember where she had heard it. “…gave you a week to come up with the money. That’s more time than he gives most people.”

“Falcon and I go way back. He set up my business here…”

“…and the Kansas City syndicate is very happy for your monetary assistance. But…” The man raised a gun, with an abnormally long barrel, to Georgie’s head. “Sorry Georgie. That’s really a shame for you. I’ve been authorized to kill you if you didn’t have it.”

“But…” POP! The rotund man’s body fell to the floor with a thud and a squish. Quickly but calmly unscrewing what made the barrel abnormally long… a silencer! Samantha thought, having seen enough crime television shows to know what a silencer was… the man carefully placed the gun and silencer in his pockets, then pulled something out of his pocket and dropped it casually on top of the body. 

With what sounded like a snort (but Samantha couldn’t determine from where she was hiding), the man sauntered out of the private room, easily finding the hidden door designed for discrete getaways. Not taking the time to wonder how he knew the layout of the building, she quickly followed him. Because the pulsating music from the other private rooms shook the walls, Samantha didn’t, necessarily, have to be quiet in following the man. When he reached the door he calmly walked out into the humid Midwestern night. Samantha caught the door with her foot about four inches before it closed and caught sight of the man approaching a car half hidden in the shadows. Thankful for the full moon, Samantha had enough sense to catch the make and model of the car but not the look of the man. She then noticed an occupant in the front seat. It was clearly a man, given the built of the shadow, but she couldn’t discern anything else about him. 

Samantha quickly shut the door and ran for the cordless phone. Stepping closer to the body, she dialed three numbers then looked at poor Georgie. A look of confusion passed her face when she saw what the man dropped on the body. A feather. A falcon’s feather to be precise. This high-paid stripper never realized that the PHD in Zoology she was working towards would come into play in a MURDER. It must be a calling card. Now Samantha wondered if she should’ve been a cop instead of an animal doctor.

“911. What is your emergency?”

SHERLOLLY***SHERLOLLY***SHERLOLLY

“It’s done boss.”

The occupant, who had been looking away while the man came back to the car, looked at the building. Narrowing his eyes he saw a shadow pass underneath the light above the door then the door shut.

“SHIT! Were you seen?”

“No.”

“Somebody saw us.”

“They couldn’t have.”

“Unless there’s a ghost making shadows we’ve been seen.” Boss turned to the man. “What the hell are you waiting for? Get us the fuck out of here!” With a squeal of tires (which, given the reputation of the strip club, wasn’t unusual), the car raced out of the parking lot, just as the very distant wail of sirens cut through the night. “We’ve got to find out who that was. We could’ve been made.”

“But…”

“Shut up moron. You will find out who that is. And you will kill them.”

“Yes boss.”

SHERLOLLY***SHERLOLLY***SHERLOLLY

13 YEARS LATER…

“Hello? Michelle? It’s Molly Hooper.” The pretty brunette smiled easily when she thought about her appointment to go shopping with her gregarious and fun-loving neighbor, Michelle Livingston. Molly had been pulling a lot of overtime at the hospital, where she worked as a pathologist, and had been looking forward to spending the afternoon with her friend. It was 11 a.m. and they were going to hit the shops on Oxford Street, a tony section of London. The practical pathologist saved up all year for this shopping trip, and she was bound and determined to find some great deals. Michelle, always one for shopping, agreed in a heartbeat when Molly asked for her company the week before. It was all the women could talk about, much to the chagrin of Michelle’s loyal and somewhat longsuffering husband, Eric.

Frowning slightly when nobody answered, Molly tried the bell again. Still not getting a response, she knocked on the door before turning the knob, only to find it unlocked. This, in itself, wasn’t unusual; she was constantly scolding Michelle about her habit of leaving her front door unlocked.

_“You’re living in London now, Michelle, not Oklahoma. You can’t leave doors unlocked here, like you did back home.”_

_Michelle would sigh and nod. “I know, I know but old habits die hard. Besides, everybody I’ve met in London is so nice and eager to help.”_

_“Shelly, I’ve seen enough at my job to know that people will do anything to anybody. Please be careful.”_

_“Ok Molls. I’ll be careful.”_

On this day, when Molly crept into the house, something did not feel right. Tremors of apprehension ghosted down her back and she inadvertently wrapped her arms against the cold feeling. “Shelly? Are you here?”

Nothing was out of place; nothing seemed to be disturbed. It was simply eerily quiet. “Shelly?” Not finding anything amiss Molly took the stairs to the second floor. Molly had wished she could have the house the Livingstons had. It wasn’t big but it wasn’t small. As the Three Bears would pronounce, it was just right. Given that Molly lived in the small building of flats next door, anything would’ve been better than what she was currently living in. Brushing that aside she made it to the second floor and tripped on something. She gasped when she turned…

…and found Michelle Livingston lying on the landing of the stairs, her eyes and mouth open in fright, a nylon cord wrapped around her neck.

The terrified young pathologist pulled out her mobile and rang New Scotland Yard. “Greg? It’s Molly Hooper.”

DI Greg Lestrade instantly heard the panic in the young woman’s voice. “Molls? What’s going on? Are you ok?”

Molly instantly began screaming, “SHE’S DEAD! SHE’S DEAD! SHE’S DEAD!” 

“MOLLY?!?!?” Lestrade yelled before he heard a thump and the phone going dead.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters are not mine. The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don’t get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing! 
> 
> This story is un-betaed.

**Chapter 1**

_Molly instantly began screaming, “SHE’S DEAD! SHE’S DEAD! SHE’S DEAD!”_

_“MOLLY?!?!?” Lestrade yelled before he heard a thump and the phone going dead._

.....

If somebody had asked Dr. John Watson how his day was going, the man wouldn’t have been able to truthfully answer the question. Because he didn’t know. The only thing he could have truthfully said was that it was a day out of the Twilight Zone. It started when he came down for breakfast and found his roommate, Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, actually eating. Well, if you could call the noises emanating from his mouth sounds of a human eating. It sounded more like feeding time at Jurassic Park. 

This, of course, took the doctor aback. Sherlock was a bean pole, a lean mean thinking machine, preferring to feed his brain instead of his body. After all, the consumption of food took time and energy away from, usually, solving a case. Casual dining was not in the man’s social repertoire. Well, if he’d actually HAD a social repertoire it wouldn’t have been there. So, the consumption of food typically signified something important. The end of a case usually. When John found him eating, he usually understood what preceded and/or precipitated it. 

Basically, the Army doctor was at a complete loss as to why the man was eating. 

And that explained away John’s surprise to see, and hear, Sherlock munching on a crumpet. John’s eyebrow rose as he took in the occasion. “You are eating?!?”

Sherlock threw the man a quick look of annoyance over his shoulder then turned back to loudly munching on his food. “What’s your point? Eating breakfast is quite common.”

“Not for you.” Sherlock ignored the comment and continued the loud carnivorous chewing (exactly how does one chew a crumpet loudly anyway?). John became even more confused as he continued to stare at Sherlock. And John finally realized why he was confused: he’d suddenly remembered that they didn’t have a case, and hadn’t had one, in several days. So why was he eating NOW? 

Pre-Incident, (John referenced that particular event as ‘The Incident’ but he treats it very like ‘The Situation That Shall Not Be Named’. It would seem the doctor still couldn’t resolve the issues around that particular event.) Sherlock would act like a five year old whose favorite blankie was stolen when he was bored. Bored as in not having any cases and being stuck having to deal with real life. But now, post-Incident, Sherlock was more introspective, thinking a tic (but only a tic) longer before opening his mouth. To John it was weird and it felt wrong, like the earth was tilted off its axis in some bizarre fashion. John was about to open his mouth to comment when Sherlock’s phone buzzed. The man in question didn’t move an inch, didn’t even flinch, except to continue his munching.

Rolling his eyes John picked up the phone from where it sat five inches from Sherlock’s plate. “Lestrade! Do you have a case?”

“No. Is the jerk there?”

“Yes but what’s going on?”

“It’s Molly.”

This startled John. That was the last thing he expected to hear coming from DI Lestrade. John looked at Sherlock. “What about Molly? Has something happened to her?”

Sherlock’s chewing instantly stopped. He threw down the crumpet, stood up and took the phone, leaving John’s mouth hanging wide open. “What about Molly?”

“I got a strange phone call from her.”

“Well, what did she say?” His irritation was evident, startling the army doctor even more. 

“She said, SHE’S DEAD! SHE’S DEAD! SHE’S DEAD! Then her phone went dead.”

By then Sherlock was pacing, running his hand through his hair, the open dressing gown flapping around his pajama bottom legs. “Well, where is she?”

“We have no idea. She didn’t tell us. We didn’t have time to trace the call but we’re starting with her flat…”

“Hang up and do your job. We’ll meet you there.” He clicked the phone off, threw it to John and then rushed to his bedroom.

“Sherlock? What’s going on?”

“Hurry John.” The shout he gave from the bathroom was frantic and startling. While it took John, once again, by surprise, he recognized it was a sign of a continually growing regard for the mousy pathologist who helped fake Sherlock’s suicide (i.e. The Incident). John couldn’t weasel the entire story from either one but Sherlock certainly handled Molly with kid gloves now. In fact, it had been a year since Sherlock was publicly pronounced alive and the situation between Sherlock and Molly was… interesting at best. While Sherlock became introspective and somewhat withdrawn around the woman, Molly grew a backbone and wouldn’t let anything he said outwardly faze her. She was strong and she made sure that Sherlock saw that.

And he did; oh did he ever. And that was part of the problem.

And it explained the state Sherlock was currently in. Molly had become the one woman who’d weaseled her way under his skin (never mind The Woman; she was an intellectual challenge but she could never have become what Molly had) and he was reacting… well. He was reacting like a man in love. In their own ways, that gave both Holmes and Watson the shivers: Sherlock, involuntary arousing shivers; for Watson the heebie-jeebies, i.e. Twilight Zone, shivers.

Just as Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf, his phone rang again. He grabbed it from John. When he read the caller ID he was at first relieved then panicky. “Molly? Where are you?? What’s going on?”

“Sheeerlooock…” She moaned, tears choking her voice. 

Sherlock bolted from 221B, barely giving John enough time to catch up with him. “Molly?” Sherlock asked again, this time in the softest voice John had ever heard from the fast-talking, loudly deducing detective. “Molly, where are you? What happened?”

Molly, soothed by his voice, sighed and hiccupped. “Michelle… Michelle is dead. I… I… I fainted after I tripped over her…” The recounting of the scene brought fresh tears to the young woman’s eyes. “The… The look on her… her face…” Sherlock’s heart gave an unexpected THUD at the fresh round of tears just beginning. The feeling was quite vexing, which only put Sherlock in a worse mood.

“What number Molly?”

“The house next door to my building… Number 82.”

Sherlock knew which one Michelle was but he wasn’t ready to get off the phone with her. He didn’t want to leave her alone just yet. “The Smithsons, McGregors, Livingstons or Applethorpes?”

John threw him a confused look. “How did you…?” Sherlock waved him away as he waited for Molly’s answer.

“Livingstons. Number 82.” Molly repeated. 

“We’ll be there in 10 minutes.” Sherlock hung up then, with clenched jaw, hailed a taxi in record time. Usually taxi drivers ignored the snarly intensive gaze of the consulting detective but there was a certain desperate look about the man that made him somewhat compelling. Once they got in Sherlock called Lestrade. “Molly rang me. She’s at her neighbor’s house, the Livingstons, Number 82. Michelle Livingston is dead.” Sherlock rung off then turned the phone over and over again, his mind awhirl of thoughts. 

“Sherlock?”

“I’m not answering any questions about Molly.”

“But…?”

“Get your head out of what you think there is and concentrate on what there really is. Someone killed Michelle Livingston. Molly took a holiday from St. Bart’s to go shopping with Michelle. They were going to…”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. So you keep Molly’s social calendar now?”

“…Oxford Street. Molly goes there once a year as a treat for herself.”

And John instantly recognized he wasn’t going to get anything from the detective, at least right now. “You have a lot of explaining to do Sherlock,” John muttered but Sherlock simply rolled his eyes.

SHERLOLLY**SHERLOLLY**SHERLOLLY**

When Molly heard the dial tone after Sherlock hung up, she stumbled down the steps and out the door. She simply could not stay in that house while her friend was lying dead on the stairs. The whole thing was completely baffling to her. Michelle Livingston was the last person Molly would ever suspect anybody would want to harm. Even when she had the occasional quarrel with her husband, they always made up right away. But to be strangled so senselessly like that… it seemed very clinical. And what was that clutched in her hand? 

Molly heard the distinct sounds of approaching police sirens and with a heavy heart sighed with an almost infinite relief. Within minutes Lestrade stepped out of his car and wrapped the shaking young woman in his arms, his hands smoothing her long hair down her back. Molly finally completely broke down, great sobs rocking both her and the DI. 

“Shhh…” He murmured but then stiffened.

“Molly…” Another voice broke through the din, sending another shock of panic pulsating through her already wracked nerves. “…Molly, what happened?”


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters are not mine. The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don’t get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing! 
> 
> This story is un-betaed.

**Chapter 2**

_Molly heard the distinct sounds of approaching police sirens and with a heavy heart sighed with an almost infinite relief. Within minutes Lestrade stepped out of his car and wrapped the shaking young woman in his arms, his hands smoothing her long hair down her back. Molly finally completely broke down, great sobs rocking both her and the DI._

_“Shhh…” He murmured but then stiffened._

_“Molly…” Another voice broke through the din, sending another shock of panic pulsating through her already wracked nerves. “…Molly, what happened?”_

.....

Now Molly was mad. Mad at Michelle Livingston for dying on her. Mad at her for dying on their shopping day ( _didn’t she realize that Molly waited all YEAR for this?_ ). Mad at the killer for choosing that day to kill her. Mad at the killer for killing her in the first place. 

But most of all Molly Hooper was mad at herself. She was mad at breaking down when she made herself swear that she wouldn’t do that, particularly in front of Sherlock, the infuriating man asking her what had happened. ESPECIALLY in front of him. It had been a year since Sherlock was publically pronounced alive, and Molly had been tough. She hadn’t made a fool of herself in front of him. She hadn’t stuttered or stumbled over her words; she hadn’t made assumptions of him or concentrated on those parts that always seemed to make her weak in front of him. No, she was impressive in her confidence. 

Whatever confidence she’d built up since The Incident was seemingly torn down by all her blubbering and mess. 

But maybe she shouldn’t be quite so hard on herself. After all, she did just find her friend murdered in her home.

“What happened?” Molly’s answer to Sherlock, standing behind her, was to throw his question back to his face. Her confidence was back, from where she didn’t know, but perhaps not completely as she couldn’t look at Sherlock at all. Molly stayed in Lestrade’s arms, staring beyond his shoulder. “My friend’s been murdered. I’ve told you that. Go see for yourself.”

“Stay here Molly,” Lestrade said, handing her off to a friendly female police officer. Molly looked behind her to see Sherlock passing a quick look at her before stalking inside, his hands behind his great Belstaff coat, his head held up authoritatively. And this simply left the mousy pathologist as a pile of goo on the sidewalk.

Damn him. And damn her weakness.

.....

Sherlock was frustrated. Molly didn’t let him arrive at the crime scene with a clear head. If anything he was, reluctantly, preoccupied by thoughts of the woman whom he thought he’d observed and gleaned every possible scrap of knowledge from. Apparently he’d been wrong… and he’d been wrong for quite some time now. Every time he saw this woman she threw something new at him. Of course, if the man had been honest with himself, he’d have recognized how exciting and just how much the mystery thrilled him. At the same time he felt he’d failed all the years Pre-Incident. Sherlock should’ve seen something in all those years to hint at the woman now.

The woman now, slowly, excited that long-buried passion and, dear Lord, sentiment, which he’d kept locked away in the far off, rarely ventured to attic of his ‘mind palace’: that opulent place with many rooms to store the information relevant, well, what his mind coined as relevant, to his life. In the past year Sherlock was having more arguments with himself about what information was relevant and what information wasn’t than he thought he’d ever have. To be honest he always assumed this mind was in league with the rest of his body; that, in fact, it overruled it. But his mind was turning on him; his mind was constantly expanding the room labeled ‘MOLLY HOOPER’; it had even redecorated it into something he’d never wanted for a room.

Damn it; it was like his mind was in league with his heart. Sentiment.

And now, a year after Sherlock was proclaimed alive, Molly seemed to be taking up half a wing of a floor of his palace. Her room had started out the size of a broom closet.

Giving his mind first a kick to shake it out, then a slap and a warning to NOT turn into one of THEM (the average, feeling person), Sherlock followed Lestrade into the modest house. Taking his time eye sweeping the abode, he was surprised to find nothing out of the ordinary. It was a bit eclectic, a mixture of the old and the new, but very tasteful and surprisingly functional. He looked at the door, the knob and the lock; absolutely nothing out of place. While clearly not new it was in pristine condition. “The door wasn’t forced. She either knew her killer or kept her door unlocked.”

“For the sake of solving the crime I hope it’s the first one,” Lestrade said, his eyes taking in the room as well.

“Where was the body found?” John asked from behind Sherlock.

“Molly said the top of the stairs.”

Sherlock sent the older detective a puzzled glance. “You haven’t seen it yet?”

Lestrade shook his head. “I got here just before you did and went straight to Molly. Let’s see what we have.”

Sherlock, grateful yet horrified to find he was jealous that Lestrade got to Molly first, doubled his efforts to put any feelings he had aside to concentrate on the case. Halfway up the stairs he could see the body on the landing above him. His sharp, keen pale eyes took in everything around him, noting the expression on the woman’s face; the way she was murdered and, most curiously, what was found clutched in the woman’s hand. Sherlock’s eyes crinkled with curiosity but he didn’t say anything.

“Is that a feather?” John asked, his trusty blogger always one to, curiously, speak what was going on in Sherlock’s brain without realizing it. That’s what made their friendship such a great one. That and the fact that Watson actually put up with Sherlock’s shit.

“More specifically a falcon feather.”

Lestrade stared at the scene in confusion. “Just how did you know that was a falcon feather?” The look the consulting detective threw the professional detective irritatingly asked him why he asked such a stupid question. With a shake of his head Lestrade asked, “But why…?”

“I see no evidence of a bird in the home and falcons certainly aren’t house pets. The feather is a calling card, which makes this a professional hit.” Sherlock shook his head. “Either the killer found another way into the house or Michelle left the front door unlocked. We can ask Molly. She’s her friend; she may know her security habits.” For the next fifteen minutes, Sherlock and Watson roamed the second floor, then the first, looking around. None of the windows were forced and the sliding glass door in the back, which led to a small but well-kept garden, was bolted shut. There was no evidence of tampering. Finally, when the young men were through, Sherlock walked out the front door to find that Molly had gone back to her flat.

Sherlock easily located the correct flat. After all, he had spent three months after The Incident with her, in this tiny one bedroom abode. He hadn’t been back since he left but what happened during those months took up a palace room, in and of itself. He realized he’d hurt her but he was determined not to address that. It was much easier to ignore it then deal with it. 

Right?

John, following closely behind, was confused at his own surprise to see that Sherlock knew which flat was Molly’s. It was Sherlock after all; he just seemed to know information without rhyme or reason. Given Sherlock’s sudden tension, though, John couldn’t help but wonder how Sherlock knew which flat was Molly’s. 

“Um, Sherlock, how did you know which flat is Molly’s?” The man in question turned even further from John but mumbled something. “I’m sorry; I didn’t catch that.”

Sherlock knew John wasn’t going to give up. He looked at his friend, his only friend in this big world. “I stayed with Molly for three months after I jumped.”

John’s eyes widened then he nodded. Ok, that made a lot of sense… “Well, that does begin to explain a whole lot…”

“A whole lot of… what?”

John, smirking, knocked on the door and Molly answered immediately. Before Sherlock could do anything John swept her into a comforting and massive hug, running his hand down her back. “How are you doing Molls?”

“Better now. Just…” Her words trailed off before they could break. “…I’m in shock. Who could do that to her? She was the kindest woman…”

“It was a professional hit.”

“SHERLOCK!”

“What?!” Molly’s astonishment covered her face as she turned to Sherlock. She was clearly bewildered. “A professional hit?” Sherlock nodded. “But why?”

“We couldn’t find signs of a break in. Did she leave her doors unlocked?”

Molly sighed and nodded. “Michelle Livingston was an ex-pat who grew up in Oklahoma. She was so used to leaving her doors unlocked when she lived there that she never did it anywhere else, even when she went to university in Washington State. I kept scolding her about it. Shelly just said that old habits die hard.” Molly covered her eyes. “This is all just too much…”

“An ex-pat? Is she married? Have children?”

“Yes. Eric Livingston. He is an executive with Future Now, a consulting company for nature and wildlife industries all over the world. He is gone a lot, travelling. They have a seven year old daughter, Stella. She’s in school at the moment.” Molly took a moment to study the detective then her eyes widened. “Could this have anything to do with his work?”

Sherlock tilted his head, pleased she made the connection. “Perhaps but it is too soon to tell. Stay here. Keep yourself safe.”

“But you said it’s a professional hit. Why would they be coming after me?”

“In case you saw something.”

Molly shook her head. “I didn’t see anything.”

“Yes but they don’t know that.” Sherlock opened his mouth to say something else but, with a flick of his coat, he turned and stalked down the hall, leaving a bewildered army doctor and pathologist in his wake.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters are not mine. The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don’t get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing! 
> 
> This story is un-betaed.

**Chapter 3**

_Sherlock tilted his head, pleased she made the connection. “Perhaps but it is too soon to tell. Stay here. Keep yourself safe.”_

_“But you said it’s a professional hit. Why would they be coming after me?”_

_“In case you saw something.”_

_Molly shook her head. “I didn’t see anything.”_

_“Yes but they don’t know that.” Sherlock opened his mouth to say something else but, with a flick of his coat, he turned and stalked down the hall, leaving a bewildered army doctor and pathologist in his wake._  
…..

When John caught up with Sherlock he was standing in front of the house, surveying it. “What was that about, back there?”

“What was what?”

“You know, that?”

“Really John, don’t be so vague. You of all people know how much I hate that.” Sherlock pulled out his phone and began searching the internet. “A falcon’s feather isn’t common among contract killings.”

“How often are calling cards, like feathers, mentioned in the media when reporting the story?”

Sherlock’s fingers, while still moving, slowed a fraction. “Buzz kill.”

John’s eyebrow rose. “Did you just call me a buzz kill?”

“Ah-HA!” Sherlock’s declaration was triumphant as he turned his phone to his friend. “A crime syndicate based out of Kansas City…”

“Where?”

“Oh do be serious! It’s in the middle of the United States.” Sherlock paused to read. “It’s run by a shadowy figure…” His eyebrows rolled at the clichéd moniker. “…of whom nobody, not even the federal government, has been able to identify. He’s called the ‘Falcon’ apparently. The feather is rather apropos then.”

“Oh… a bit like Keyser Soze.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. So he’s a criminal of legendary, and even mythical, proportions, this Falcon? He rules by reputation only?” 

“Appears so. I can only find two stories pertaining to a feather being left at a crime scene but only one taking place in Kansas City. The other seems to be a copy cat. How can he be this infamous and only have one verified murder originating from him?”

“Think this Falcon knows, or rather knew, Moriarty?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his friend then began walking again, this time surveying the area around the outside of the house. When he got to the side that faced Molly’s flat building, he looked up and saw that Molly’s flat faced the house. Sherlock hit a speed dial number. “Molly? Go to your window that faces the Livingston house.” A moment later the woman, who looked a great deal calmer, opened the window and leaned out. 

“What’s going on?”

“Can you see into the Livingston house from your vantage point?”

Molly looked around, squinting and tilting herself to find the best angle. “No I can’t.”

“What else do you know about the Livingstons?”

“I’m coming down.”

With a curt nod Sherlock turned and leaned against the house. He was ashamed to admit his mind wasn’t fully on the case. When she emerged, Molly stopped in front of Sherlock. “What else do you need to know? I told you where they are from and what Eric does.”

“Anything else?”

“Well. Let’s see.” Molly stood beside Sherlock, leaning against the house, as John watched them both carefully, taking mental notes. “They moved into that house five years ago. Michelle was originally from Tulsa, Oklahoma, and met Eric eight years before they moved in beside me. She’d worked previously with the Tulsa Zoo, and now does, well did, part time consulting for the Zoological Society of London.”

“So they both work with animals?”

“Well the industry anyway. That was how they met. Eric’s originally from Seattle. He worked with the fish and wildlife societies up there and met Michelle at the University of Washington in Tacoma, where she was studying to work in wildlife conservation. Eric did a fellowship with the Aquatic and Fishery Sciences department there.”

“Michelle seems rather old to have been at University.”

“Well, she was working her way through school. She started late and did what she could with the resources she had. Eric’s a genius in his field and has become highly regarded and published.”

“So he holds a doctorate?” Molly nodded. Sherlock studied her. 

“But I thought she worked for the Tulsa Zoo?”

“After they married she worked with him and his research but would, occasionally, travel to Oklahoma to supervise the installations of new exhibits and improvements to existing exhibits. She was more of a consultant with the Tulsa Zoo than actual employee.”

“So Eric and Michelle Livingston lived in Washington before they came to London?” 

Molly nodded. “Michelle said she moved to Tacoma in 1998 but had worked at the Tulsa Zoo before moving out of state. She kept in contact with her friends there during her time in Washington, and even after they moved to London she would meet up with them several times a year, when they would go back and visit family.”

“How do you know so much about this family?”

“Michelle is.. was… a talker. I mean, if you gave her wine she went on and on about her life. I think I know more about her and Eric than she knew about me.” 

Molly could see his brain racing to process all the information. With a quick nod he turned on his heel and went back to the front of the house. John sighed and shrugged. “Molly, I think he’s concerned. I’m sure the killer or killers are long gone by now but you were the one to find the body.” She nodded quickly and John hesitated with his words. “Sherlock told me he stayed with you, after The Incident…”

“JOHN!” The bellow echoed through the neighborhood, prompting an eye roll from both Molly and John.

“…and that answers a lot of questions about his general mood and behavior the past year. If you ever feel like you want to…”

“No, I don’t want to talk about it. If I wanted to talk about it…”

“JOHN! I CAN HEAR YOU!”

“…I would’ve talked about it long before now. So please do us both a favor and keep your bloody arse out of our business!” With a sharp turn Molly stalked back to her flat, leaving a bewildered, and somewhat saddened, army doctor rooted in his spot.

…..

The man stepped inside the car and quickly finished sending the text he’d been writing when the car pulled up. He looked up to watch the late afternoon London traffic from their vantage point of the hotel’s car park. He then turned to the man behind the rented car. “So it is done?” 

“Yep.” 

“Any witnesses?” 

“Nope.” 

“That Hooper woman?” 

“She wasn’t home. I made sure of it. I rang her bell and nobody answered. I cased the block. I got away cleanly. The Hooper woman didn’t arrive home until an hour later.” The other man nodded and smiled. His phone dinged with a text alert. He looked down to read the one word text:

**YES**

The man hastily sent a reply then went back to studying the busy London day. They were safely on the other side of the city. With a nod the man pulled the car into late afternoon London traffic. “I should’ve handled Georgie myself; then we wouldn’t have gone through all this trouble.” 

“Oh but think of all the progress we made.” 

“Very true. It was a stroke of luck, Camel. We wouldn’t have had an in without the stripper. It would’ve made everything that much more difficult.” 

The man shrugged. “Maybe you’re right. But you would’ve found a way, Falcon.”

“I don’t know. I never thought it would be this difficult to get this deep into the Witness Protection Program. I would’ve thought more agents could have been bought.”

“At least the ones you couldn’t buy, you made their deaths look like accidents.”

Falcon smiled. “I am very good at that.”

“But what do we do now?” 

“We did what we came to London to do. We got rid of Satin. Our enterprise has been established. The contacts are in place. All we need are the highest bidders and the witness of their choice is exposed and eliminated. But The Satin Issue needed to be resolved.”

“And Eric Livingston? What about him?”

Falcon turned to look out the window. He loved a foreign city; it gave such rich opportunities not only to hide in plain sight but to scout for potential targets (err… customers) for his growing enterprise. “Tomorrow he will be taken care of. Mother always stressed how important it was to clean up after yourself. I am cleaning house. He will no longer be a problem.”

“And the little girl?”

Falcon shook his head. “We do not touch children. People who harm children are animals. She will be cared for.” This made Camel’s eyebrow rise but nothing else was said about the issue. 

Camel studied the traffic then looked over at Falcon. “But why kill Satin? We had control of her. She wouldn’t have been a problem.”

“Perhaps but I thought we had Georgie under control and look what happened there?” Falcon paused. “No, with Satin still alive there was always a chance that everything would blow up in our faces. Now I need all the information you can get me on this detective friend of Hooper’s. This Sherlock Holmes.” 

“Sherlock Holmes? What kind of a name is that?” 

“How the hell should I know? This is England for Christ’s sake.” 

“But why do you need information on Sherlock Holmes?” 

“I have been informed that he is a brilliant detective. He solves cases others cannot. He will be a problem.”

“But how? You are virtually anonymous.”

“Do you trust me Camel? And my decisions?” 

Camel nodded. “Yes. I always have. You seem to know before anybody else that something will happen. You are always prepared.”

“Yes. And I know this.” Once Camel stopped at a traffic light Falcon turned his phone around to show him the texting he just finished. “The Hooper woman has called him. He’s on the scene now, investigating. I must always be prepared. ALWAYS be prepared. So…” Falcon paused in thought. “Is Angie back in Britain?” 

Camel nodded again. “He got back in last night.”

“Good. Call him. Arrange a surprise for Miss Hooper tonight. But don’t kill her. We will need her for leverage. And don’t wait.” Falcon paused again. “I am not surprised she called Holmes. She’s in love with him you know.” 

“And how do you know that?” 

Falcon simply smiled.


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters are not mine. The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don’t get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing! 
> 
> This story is un-betaed.

**Chapter 4**

_Now I need all the information you can get me on this detective friend of Hooper’s. This Sherlock Holmes.”_

_“Sherlock Holmes? What kind of a name is that?”_

_“How the hell should I know? This is England for Christ’s sake.”_

_“But why do you need information on Sherlock Holmes?”_

_“I have been informed that he is a brilliant detective. He solves cases others cannot. He will be a problem.”_

_“But how? You are virtually anonymous.”_

_“Do you trust me Camel? And my decisions?”_

_Camel nodded. “Yes. I always have. You seem to know before anybody else that something will happen. You are always prepared.”_

_”Yes. And I know this.” Once Camel stopped at a traffic light Falcon turned his phone around to show him the texting he just finished. “The Hooper woman has called him. He’s on the scene now, investigating. I must always be prepared. ALWAYS be prepared. So…” Falcon paused in thought. “Is Angie back in Britain?”_

_Camel nodded again. “He got back in last night.”_

_“Good. Call him. Arrange a surprise for her tonight. But don’t kill her. We will need her for leverage. But don’t wait.” Falcon paused again. “I am not surprised she called him. She’s in love with him you know.”_

_“And how do you know that?”_

_Falcon simply smiled._

 

That night, after Sherlock and John left; the body was taken away; the crime scene was locked up and a guard was posted at the Livingston’s door, Molly laid in her darkened bedroom, listening as the noises of the city faded with the daylight. To be honest she didn’t know what to make of her current situation. Well, alright, there really wasn’t a ‘situation’ for her but she felt like she was in one, all the same. Her friend thrust her in the middle of something, just from the sheer fact that she was dead.

Suddenly Molly felt a presence; it was the same presence she felt whenever she would wake up and find Sherlock in her room. It happened quite a bit in that time after Sherlock jumped. “Sherlock? Why don’t you ever knock? Why do you simply sneak in and scare the shite out of me?”

“You’re thinking. Stop thinking and go to sleep.”

“What are you going to tell John?”

“There’s nothing to tell him. I spent three months hiding in your flat and then I didn’t. You went to work and I stayed here, working to bring down Moriarty’s network. That’s it.”

She didn’t believe him. Molly wasn’t stupid; she’d seen the change in him. “Easy for you to forget that we spent the last month of your stay screwing our brains out…”

“Oh Molly, there’s no need to be vulgar.”

Now Molly was pissed off. Sitting up she turned on the light to find him sitting in what seemed to be his favorite chair, in the corner of her bedroom. She had found him sitting there often enough. Crossing her arms over the oversized t-shirt that doubled as her sleep nightie, she glared at the detective. The man in question was thoroughly enjoying the picture the pathologist made: hair rumpled from nervous tossing; eyes narrowed and flashing; cheeks flushed. _What is this woman doing to me?_ “Vulgar?! I’m not the one pretending that nothing ever happened, yet acting like you want it to happen again. I’m not an idiot…”

“I never thought you were…”

“…so stop treating me like one. I have eyes. I can see you, Sherlock, even while you are camping in that vast no-man’s land of Denial.”

“I thought that was a river in Egypt.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake…” she got out of the bed and grabbed his coat collar, pulling him out of the chair. “I think you should leave now.”

“What happened to you? Where is the meek pathologist I am used to?”

“You happened to me.”

His pale eyes tried to meet hers but she simply couldn’t look him in the eye. “Molly, every characteristic of your personality indicates that you become even more meek and clumsy when embarrassed or hurt. But that hasn’t happened. You became strong and, dare I say, a bit ballsy. How is that possible?”

Molly’s eyes flashed. “Could it mean that I’m not hurt? That I’m just really, really pissed off?”

“Not possible. This level of contention towards me could only mean I deeply hurt you.”

“Fantastic. NOW he claims to understand human emotions,” She rasped to nobody in particular. Molly looked at him. “Fine. You want to know what happened to me? A virus called ‘Shite from Sherlock’ happened. It completely rewired me. Go look it up; I’m sure there are many documented cases.” Molly pushed him out of the bedroom toward her front door. “Now please go. You have a mystery to solve. Work on that.”

“Not really. It was a contract hit. I don’t work on hit cases. There’s nothing interesting about them.”

“But this is Michelle. Michelle would never get mixed up in anything like that.”

“People would surprise you.” He paused then looked out the window that faced the Livingston house. “The majority of contract killings are men with obviously crooked dealings.” He looked back at her. “You say she wouldn’t have been involved in something crooked?” Molly shook her head. “Fine. But you do realize that I have to investigate your friend; you might not like it if something comes up negative about her or her family.”

Now Molly was astonished. “What?”

Sherlock looked back through the window. “When you think about it, seemingly normal forty-something women, living in Britain, don’t get bumped off by criminals based out of somewhat obscure cities in the United States.” He looked back at her. “Might not be so boring after all.” He smirked and, much to Molly’s chagrin, she was a bit relieved that the Sherlock she knew (and reluctantly loved) was still there, somewhere, even if the flames of his fiery words had been tamed, just a bit, at least toward her. 

She threw him a confused look. “But why are you willing to investigate anyway? You were just going to let it go.”

Sherlock gave her a searching look, his eyes roving her body, taking a few extra milliseconds to concentrate on the bare legs underneath her shorts, then turned and left her flat. 

Now Molly knew she wasn’t getting any sleep that night.

.....

John was awoken by a large annoying… something… physically pushing him out of his bed. And out of his latest dream about Mary Morstan the new Customer Service Representative (as they liked to be called) at the local Tesco. She was the woman who helped him with his latest fight with the chip-and-pin machine. Seriously, why didn’t he just carry cash? He was simply awful with those machines. But if the public humiliation meant a possible date with the lovely Miss Morstan, who was he to argue?

“Wha… wha…? Sherlock! What do you want?” John grunted as he flailed underneath the sheets that went tumbling atop him as he went flying to the floor. He groaned when, finally finding the end of the sheet, he saw the huge “3:37” and the AM button illuminated on his digital alarm clock. “It’s 3:30 in the bloody morning. This had better be good.”

“Why would a woman, in her forties, get whacked by a professional killer?”

John’s eyebrow rose with his use of ‘whacked’. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it even further. “You’re the Great and Powerful Oz. You must have all the answers inside that expensive coat of yours. You tell me.” John’s yawn echoed through the room.

“She either did something or she saw something.”

“You seem to be doing very well on your own. Run with that. I’m going to sleep.” John gingerly stood up but it wasn’t enough as his foot became entangled in the sheets and he went face first back into the floor.

“John, stop wasting time and listen to me.”

Keeping the breadth of rather blue expletives confined in his brain, John finally managed to stand up. “You really aren’t going to leave are you?”

Sherlock ignored him and let his mind finish his deducting. “But how does a woman from Seattle get hit by somebody from Kansas City, in London of all places?”

“Perhaps it’s a copy cat? You mentioned finding a copy cat case.”

“Hmmm…” Sherlock, really not paying any attention to his surroundings, sat down on John’s bed. John could swear he could hear his brain whirring. It sounded a bit like the whirring a computer makes when it burns DVDs. 

“Great. I’m not getting any sleep.” John untangled himself completely from his sheets and went downstairs to the kitchen, loudly banging the kettle on the stove. John turned to see Sherlock behind him. The detective’s brow was furrowed and his fingers were steepled underneath his chin. A sudden idea came to John; from where it sparked he didn’t know but he had a feeling it was genius. He mulled it over for a bit which was always smart; Dr. John Watson had been burned, one too many times, by Sherlock Holmes and His Acidic Tongue when John quickly suggested something Sherlock deemed royally stupid. “While you are watching crap telly, I am watching good movies. Like The Fugitive. Have you ever seen The Fugitive?” 

Sherlock’s eyebrow rose. “What do you think?”

“In The Fugitive a wrongfully convicted man is on the run. A United States Marshal is assigned to bring him back.”

“So?”

“The US Marshal brings to mind another movie. Eraser with Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

“What does the adulterous Governor of California slash mediocre movie hero got to do with this case? And you REALLY need to watch crap telly. It makes more sense than those horrible movies. Next you’re going to tell me that some villain in Star Trek reminded you of the way I look or talk or some such nonsense.” Sherlock was clearly ready to walk out of the room and away from such nonsense.

“Eraser is about a woman in the United States Federal Witness Protection Program, which is run by US Marshals.” John paused, smiling because he knew what Sherlock would do with the information he said next. “Did you know that the United States Federal Witness Protection was established in the 1970s to protect witnesses in organized crime cases? It really is quite an interesting history. It’s amazing what information you pick up when you aren’t watching crap telly.” John smirked when he saw that Sherlock was truly digesting what he was saying. To John it was sheer poetry when he could point out information that Sherlock himself hadn’t thought of. Or at least information Sherlock hadn’t voiced; John would count that one as well. Actually, watching Sherlock digest information he hadn’t readily considered was more like watching a shooting star: it was beautiful, poetic in its execution but over way too quickly. Not to mention extremely rare. To say that John wasn’t savoring it would be a bold faced lie. “What if Michelle Livingston was in the Witness Protection Program and The Falcon found her?” Sherlock cocked his head to the side, his eyes wildly scanning the room, moving information around in his head. John imagined if he had a white board, like that doctor on that television show, he would have used it. “And what if, say, Michelle Livingston wasn’t really from Oklahoma and never worked at a zoo, instead working at a strip club called The Midnight Call in Kansas City? And what if she witnessed a murder that necessitated her entry into the Witness Protection Program?”

Sherlock did his best to cover how bruised his ego became from watching his friend, NOT the World’s Only Consulting Detective, put together some crucial puzzle pieces. Instead he sighed. “Bloody hell. That means a call to Mycroft.”


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters are not mine. The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don’t get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing! 
> 
> This story is un-betaed.

**Chapter 5**

_“What if Michelle Livingston was in the Witness Protection Program and The Falcon found her?” Sherlock cocked his head to the side, his eyes wildly scanning the room, moving information around in his head. John imagined if he had a white board, like that doctor on that television show, he would have used it. “And what if, say, Michelle Livingston wasn’t really from Oklahoma and never worked at a zoo, instead working at a strip club called The Midnight Call in Kansas City? And what if she witnessed a murder that necessitated her entry into the Witness Protection Program?”_

_Sherlock did his best to cover how bruised his ego became from watching his friend, NOT the World’s Only Consulting Detective, put together some crucial puzzle pieces. Instead he sighed. “Bloody hell. That means a call to Mycroft.”_

 

Mycroft groaned when his emergency line rang. It was approaching 4 am and he was never a happy early riser. But, as he was a small corner of the British government, he had quickly become programmed to sleep lightly. Rolling over he let out a string of expletives when he saw the caller. As he knew which case Sherlock was working on, Mycroft was a bit curious about why he would call.

“Sherlock, it’s 4 in the bleeding morning.” 

“No. It’s 3:49 in the bleeding morning.”

Mycroft suddenly remembered to employ the deep breathing exercises Anthea, his personal assistant, showed him. It usually worked. Either it was too early in the morning or Mycroft was too wound up because it didn’t seem to be working that morning. But it did give him a moment before blowing his fuse. Taking another deep breath, Mycroft plastered on a smile and asked through clenched teeth, “What do you want dear brother?”

“Is the British government informed when the US Federal Witness Protection Program relocates people to the UK?”

“Not necessarily. It’s considered a favor when they are relocated here, and the Yanks know they owe us one. What does that have to do with the Livingston case?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Don’t be surprised I called. A professional hit? A falcon’s feather left at the crime scene? It reeks of government involvement. Somewhere.”

Mycroft cringed. “Don’t use the word ‘reek’. It’s so common. And middle class.”

“Well you REEK of aristocracy. I can smell your REEKAGE all the way through the phone.”

Mycroft sighed. Why did he even try? “So what do you want?”

“I want you, with all the power of your ‘minor’ position in the British government, to find out if Michelle Livingston was in the Witness Protection Program.”

“Why would you think she was? Why not the husband? Or perhaps both?”

Sherlock’s mouth dropped with shock. “I will pretend you didn’t ask something that stupid. You really aren’t at the top of your game when you are awakened rather rudely.” Sherlock had one whopper of a smirk on his face when he said that. “Professional killers are very clean in their business. It’s more likely that Falcon killed the protected witness before he finishes with the rest of the family. It’s very efficient that way.”

“True but brother dear, you would be surprised how often those closest to the intended victim are eliminated before the initial target is taken out. It proves to be quite the effective psychological tool against the target.”

Sherlock was silent for a moment. He knew that Mycroft was right in that assessment but he also knew his reasoning was sound in this particular case. While he wasn’t about to call it a ‘gut feeling’, it was still a knowing, one that he had repeatedly listened to and one that had served him well many times over. “Fine. Investigate them both. But I am positive Michelle Livingston was the intended victim.”

Mycroft, certainly not in the mood to argue with Sherlock, rudely rung off (which brought a slight smile to the older brother’s face) and fell back in the bed with a sigh. He was getting rather tired of babysitting his younger brother but this case was proving to be more interesting than he first surmised. Still, Mycroft really did need to have a talk with Mummy, once again, about why they had to have another child… and why it had to be Sherlock.

…..

As John finished with the tea, Sherlock began researching the one unsolved murder where a falcon’s feather was left on the scene. But the news stories were of no help. A witness was listed but no information was given. No murder weapon was found. The CCTV footage from that night was inexplicably erased. The story reeked (Sherlock smiled. _Take THAT you pompous twit._ ) of a cover up which only intrigued Sherlock even more.

He then Googled ‘Midnight Call’, the name of the strip club the victim, Georgie Callivario, was murdered at. It was destroyed in a fire (an unsolved fire, Sherlock discovered) several years after the hit. Upon further research, Sherlock discovered Midnight Call was owned by The Nestling Corporation. “Oh Falcon, don’t tell me you are THAT transparent.” Sherlock picked up his phone again and hit speed dial.

“Two calls in twenty minutes. You must be desperate.”

“Mycroft, not now. I also need as much information as you can give me on the George Callivario murder. Kansas City murder in 2000 at a strip club called the ‘Midnight Call’. It was owned by the Nestling Corporation.”

Sherlock could hear Mycroft sneering on the other end of the call. “Georgie Callivario? What kind of a name is that?”

“How the bloody hell should I know? It’s America for Christ’s sake.”

“Sherlock. Don’t swear.” Sherlock opened his mouth to let loose a string of expletives just to rile his brother but Mycroft stopped him. “Is the Nestling Corporation one of Falcon’s businesses?”

Sherlock’s eyebrow rose. “You have been busy this morning.” He paused. “Why are you so eager to help?”

“Dear brother…” Mycroft’s tone was one of a patient sensei whose star pupil asked an extremely stupid question. “...need I really answer that question?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and hung up the phone. “What are you thinking Sherlock?” John asked as he brought the tea into the sitting room.

“It’s certainly a professional hit. Factually I am unclear as to who the intended target is. But I just know…”

“You just know that it was Michelle.” Sherlock nodded, his hands gripping his hair as if to physically pull something out of his brain. “I know you listen to that gut instinct more than you admit. It’s alright Sherlock. I won’t tell anyone.”

Sherlock pretended to ignore him but he shoved that information into a corner of his mind palace to think upon later. “John, professionals are very thorough with their cleaning. The husband and the daughter are both in danger. We need to find Eric Livingston. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was targeted next. Where’s the daughter?”

“I believe I heard Lestrade mention that she was picked up from primary and taken to the police station. Nobody seems to know of any other family in the UK. She may be shuttled back to the States.”

“I will tell Lestrade to keep her in protective custody until the threat is over. She could be a witness and it’s very likely they will come after her.”

John paused before saying, “If they are effective, that means they will want to get rid of witnesses. This definitely includes Molly, as she not only was friends with the family but found the body. What are we going to do about her?”

“Hmmm…” Sherlock muttered but didn’t look at him. “…I had been thinking about that. She shouldn’t be alone.”

“We should talk to Lestrade. Perhaps he has an extra room for her?”

The look Sherlock shot him took Watson off guard. “She is NOT staying with Lestrade.”

“Why not? They are friends and he is the police. You trust him.”

“Not with her.” Sherlock shot out of his seat and went straight for his violin, picking up the bow and swinging it around as he paced. He turned to his friend, his best friend, and pinned him with a point of the bow. “Did you see the way he was looking at her at that Christmas Party? Like he would…” But he trailed off, leaving John grinning. 

“You can’t even hide it now. It’s love isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised is Eric Livingston is already dead. We have to find him though.” He dialed Lestrade, leaving John shaking his head over his idiocy. “Blast! Voice mail. Doesn’t anybody work?”

“Not at 4:14 in the morning.”

“If they find Livingston dead it’s your fault.” 

“But, really, I think Molly and Greg make a very handsome pair. He’s pretty and she’s brilliant.” John’s smile widened as his prey took the bait. Sherlock’s jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. With a sweep of the bow, he began sawing the violin loudly, making John cringe. During a break between long, forlorn violin moans, John’s cell phone rang.

“Molly? What is it?” Sherlock stopped playing and John finally saw a way to get him to stop any annoying habit: pull out his phone and act like Molly was calling. Of course she really was calling but it gave him something to use in the future…

He heard a whimper then a whispered, “There’s somebody here.”

“What do you mean there’s somebody there?”

Molly’s whispers were frantic. “In the flat. I heard them.”

“Where are you?” Sherlock went to take the phone but John only glared at him then hissed, “Call the police. Somebody’s in Molly’s flat.”

“Let me talk to her.” 

“NO! Call the police. NOW.” Sherlock must’ve recognized the need to actually follow instructions and simply did as he was told. John turned to his phone. “Ok, Molly. Where are you now?”

“In my bedroom cupboard. I hear them walking…”

“Did you call the police?”

“Yes, before I called you.”

“Sherlock and I are on our way. Hang on…” John suddenly heard the phone being jostled then a shriek. “Molly? MOLLY?”

The last thing John heard was Molly screaming, “HEEEELP!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: I honestly don’t really know how the Witness Protection Program works; I’m not in it myself (but, then, would I actually admit if I were?). And I certainly don’t know what happens should a witness go into hiding in another country but for the sake of this story, what I wrote is correct. Just thought I would put this disclaimer out there.**


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters are not mine. The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don’t get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing! 
> 
> This story is un-betaed.

**Chapter 6**

_“Sherlock and I are on our way. Hang on…” John suddenly heard the phone being jostled then a shriek. “Molly? MOLLY?”_

_The last thing John heard was Molly screaming, “HEEEELP!”_

 

The door to the cupboard flung open and Molly was yanked out by an impressively large man. That was all she could make out in the shadows of her bedroom. “Molly? MOLLY?”

“HEEEEELP!” Molly shrieked as she dropped the phone. This only made the impressively large man grunt with anger. He dragged her toward the front door of the flat but Molly, remembering she’d left the windows open as it had been a somewhat humid evening, yelled at the top of her lungs, “SOMEBODY HELP ME! TOP FLAT! I’M BEING KIDNAPPED!” The impressively large man grunted again then punched her across the mouth, splitting open her lip, cutting her jaw with a hard object (most likely a ring but she couldn’t see anything) and sending her head whipping back.

Molly had the overwhelming panicky feeling she was running out of time. But she hadn’t run out of adrenaline. She could feel the chemicals pulsing through her body. With as clear of a head as a woman who’d just been punched had, she threw herself, with all of her strength, against the bottom half of the impressively large man (seriously, the guy could have been a tree). While she was very petite, she certainly had the element of surprise on her side, which sent him falling. 

And, as luck would have it, as he fell he cracked his head on the corner of a bookcase, knocking the impressively large man unconscious and slumped on the floor. Molly jumped up and assumed a pseudo ninja position, in case he should make any sudden movements, but the guy was clearly not going anywhere. At first she was afraid she killed him. Not that she would have mourned him or anything but the paperwork alone would have been a hassle. Bending over she took his pulse and sighed with relief. He had a heartbeat. 

She ran to her bedroom and picked up her phone, to find that John had hung up. She called him again. “John??”

“Molly! Wha…” She could hear a scuffle over the phone but the second person clearly won. “Molly? Is he still there? Where is he?”

“Sherlock! I knocked him out!”

“You did what?”

“He’s unconscious in my sitting room. Hurry!”

“We’re on our way.” Molly hung up and sighed with relief when she heard sirens. Running out of the flat she saw Lestrade running up the stairs. “He’s in there.”

“Molly? What the hell is going on? And haven’t we already done this bit before?” Molly smirked but winced at her cracked lip, laceration from what looked to be a hard object and rapidly swelling jaw. He narrowed his eyes at her face, frowning at the blood and swelling. He rested his hand lightly against her cheek as he studied her. “Did he hit you?”

“Yes but…” She quickly told him what happened.

“We’re gonna have to take him to hospital.”

“I know but Sherlock’s gonna want to know who he is. At least search him for identification.”

Lestrade’s eyes widened. “Oh for God’s sakes, he’s turning you into him. Whatever you do, resist him. In fact, never look him in the eye again. That’s how he ensnares you…”

Molly forgot how much it hurt to smile and groaned when her mouth hurt too much to move. “He’s this way…” She led the detective and two other uniformed police officers to the room, where the man hadn’t moved. She turned on the light and got her first good look at the man. And yes, he was impressively large and yes, could have impersonated a mighty oak tree.

“Damn, that is one huge bloke.” The ginger patrolman commented, his mouth hanging open as he looked down at the very muscular, dark haired man with a goose egg on his forehead and pissed off look on his face.

“Exactly what I thought as he was pulling me out of the cupboard to take me God knows where.” Molly said. She was starting to get really, really irritated. By this time the flat was swarming with coppers and she was in her nightie. It was an oversized t-shirt that read ‘Talk Nerdy to Me’ but if she turned just right her bum was on display, for all the world to see. And she was wearing her granny panties. A burst of relief shot through her that she at least WAS wearing panties.

UGH. And Sherlock would be at her flat. For the second time that evening… now morning.

This night, err, morning, couldn’t have gotten any worse. 

Granted, Sherlock had already seen her night wear (actually he’d seen the Full Monty on more than several occasions) that evening but she’d shucked her shorts when she went back to bed. “Greg, I’m just going to go change before…” She suddenly heard footsteps, footsteps she’d know from anywhere. Oh damn, she was too late. Sherlock came bursting through the door, his eyes dancing with anxiety. When he saw Molly she could see him settle down but he was all business. 

“That’s the second time you’ve called us with an emergency in less than 24 hours. Some would say a cry for attention?” His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched as he took in her physical damage, then he gave the rest of her body a more thorough examination, his nostrils flaring at her bare legs. When he returned his eyes to her face, he leaned forward and moved to touch her face carefully but stopped. Sherlock cleared his throat and stuck his hand behind his back. “So where is he?”

“How could you miss him? He’s the felled tree in the middle of the sitting room. Follow the trail of coppers.” She pointed to the swarm of people around the unconscious man. “Sherlock, I stopped them from taking him to hospital so you can search him for anything but you better hurry. I don’t think we want to be around when he wakes up.” Molly looked at John who was studying her face. 

“Ouch. That looks rather nasty,” He pointed to the injuries on her face. “Can I take a look?” 

“Yes but I need to change clothes. I’m in my nightie.” Sherlock cleared his throat at that but didn’t look up from his examination of the man on the floor. Molly sighed and went to her bedroom.

…..

After a quick but thorough investigation, Sherlock didn’t find anything on the man except a gun, a silencer (not attached), some plastic handcuffs and a handkerchief doused with some sort of drug to knock her out. “There’s nothing. No identification. He didn’t come to kill her though.”

“Are you done?” Lestrade asked and Sherlock gave him a quick nod. The man was quickly loaded onto a gurney, where he was promptly handcuffed and taken to the waiting ambulance. Lestrade turned back to Sherlock. “He looks professional. Who are these people and why are they targeted?”

“I’ve got Mycroft working on it but…” Sherlock turned to see Molly entering the room, wearing a pair of yoga pants and her cherry print jumper over the sleep shirt. He turned back to Lestrade. “…the feather is the calling card of a Kansas City criminal.”

“I was guessing he was American. Where’s Kansas City?”

“In the middle.” Molly, Sherlock and John answered at the same time. When Molly flinched John stepped closer and guided her to a chair. “Where are your plasters and ointments kept?”

“On top of the refrigerator.” When John found what he needed, along with some ice and a plastic bag, he handed the bag to the tired girl and began working with her. 

Sherlock, watching the progress of her doctoring, looked strangely curious. “Why does nobody seem to know where Kansas City is?” 

“Perhaps for the same reason nobody outside of southeast Devon has ever heard of the town of Beer.” Lestrade said. 

Sherlock’s eyebrow rose. “Except that the Kansas City metropolitan area has over a million people, whereas Beer only has about 1500 residents. Yes, I have heard of it.” Sherlock began to pace. “A man was killed by a professional killer in a strip club, in Kansas City, called ‘Midnight Call’. A falcon’s feather was found on the body. While I could find nothing on the killing itself… it was pretty much ignored by the local media… I did find that there is a notorious criminal around Kansas City whom nobody has ever really confirmed the identity of.”

John added, nodding as he finished with Molly. “A bit like Keyser Soze.” 

“Ohhh…” Both Molly and Lestrade nodded with understanding.

“You know what that means?” Sherlock asked, rather incredibly. The two nodded. “Interesting. I thought John made that up.”

“It’s the name of the bad guy in the movie ‘The Usual Suspects’. It’s about…”

Sherlock threw Lestrade a horrified look. “Why would you think I would care? I think, in this case…”

“I think you better care,” Molly said quietly. The men turned to look at her. “If this guy is like Keyser Soze, he is able to do the things that he does because of his anonymity. He will be ruthless and he will hide behind layers of people, even without them knowing who he is or that they are being used.” The men looked at her in awe. 

“How do you know that?” Lestrade asked, his eyes showing pride in what she said.

“I don’t watch crap telly like some people do.”

“When did that movie come out?” Sherlock asked, his mind whirling at her magnificent deduction. He was greatly relieved she’d put on more clothes.

“Hmmm…” John pulled out his phone and looked it up. “…1995.”

“So when he killed the guy in Kansas City, he wasn’t copying the movie. You need time, resources and contacts to build up the sort of organization we are talking about. Perhaps this ‘Falcon’ was the inspiration?” Lestrade mused.

Sherlock rolled his eyes then huffed, turning to where the impressively large guy had fallen. “It’s a movie. It doesn’t matter. The idea we got from the movie is what matters.”

John sighed but looked ready to chuck his phone at his best friend’s head. “You’re the one who asked.”

“Yes and I’m sorry I did. I’ve got Mycroft looking into Falcon. Lestrade, where is the child?”

“She’s with Child Services at the moment.”

“Get her in police custody. There’s a good chance this child is a target for Falcon. He’s going to want to do a thorough house cleaning and she could be in grave danger.” Lestrade nodded and hit speed dial on his phone. “Now…” Sherlock turned to Molly who was watching the man do his thing. It was always her favorite part, watching the man work. “…what are we going to do with you?”

“Me?!? I’ll be fine.”

“Oh Molly…” Sherlock shook his head, his tone suggesting parental impatience. “…clearly that isn’t the case. You need to go somewhere safe.”

“And just where do you suggest?”

Sherlock shifted from foot to foot, wringing his hands behind his back. “You’ll come to Baker Street.”


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters are not mine. The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don’t get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing! 
> 
> This story is un-betaed.

**Chapter 7**

_He turned to Molly who was watching the man do his thing. It was always her favorite part, watching the man work. “…what are we going to do with you?”_

_“Me?!? I’ll be fine.”_

_“Oh Molly…” Sherlock shook his head, his tone suggesting parental impatience. “…clearly that isn’t the case. You need to go somewhere safe.”_

_“And just where do you suggest?”_

_Sherlock shifted from foot to foot, wringing his hands behind his back. “You’ll come to Baker Street.”_

 

Molly looked at Sherlock as if he were insane. Or high on something. “Are you insane? Or high on something?”

“Can both be true?” John interjected.

“I am NOT moving in with you.”

Now Sherlock was genuinely confused. “Why not?”

“We did that once. It was rubbish.” Lestrade’s eyebrow rose and he opened it to say something but she pointed to him. “Don’t even think about asking. All you need to know is that Sherlock stayed with me for three months after he jumped.” She looked back at the man in question but her next statement was meant for everybody. “I would rather jump off Bart’s myself then move back in with…” Molly pointed at Sherlock. “…him.” With that she turned on her heel and marched to her bedroom, slamming the door shut. 

“What the hell happened between you two?” John asked. It was even worse than he had once thought. Sherlock was too busy staring in the direction she stalked off to pay any attention to his best friend. Then it hit John and his eyes widened. “You did NOT! NO! You and Molly?!”

“What?” Lestrade asked. For being such a good DI, Lestrade could be rather dense at times.

“Sherlock and Molly had SEX!”

“No freakin’ WAY!” The DI laughed incredulously. He wasn’t quite sure he believed it but he wouldn’t hurt Molly’s feelings by saying anything to the contrary.

“Now I completely understand!” John shook his head. Perhaps he had some inkling of their relationship but it took her vehement refusal to prove that they had been more than just roommates. “Your sudden feelings for her and Molly’s radical personality shift. But, you bastard, you slept with her then left her. Don’t you watch enough crap telly to know you just don’t do that? Don’t start something unless you can…”

Sherlock sent John an irritated look. “It’s not like I MEANT for it to happen. It just… happened.” 

“And how many times did it ‘just happen’?” Sherlock’s silence was enough to answer the question.

“You WANKER!” Lestrade exploded, wheeling back his arm to sock him one but John was right there, pushing him back. For a smaller man John had a surprising amount of upper body strength. 

“Boys, enough.” John pushed Lestrade to the side and asked, “Are your men done with the scene?” The older man, who was breathing through his mouth to calm himself, nodded. “Fine. Get them out of the flat then come back here. I have an idea.” Lestrade threw Sherlock a glare then turned on his heel and left. 

John looked at Sherlock who was watching Lestrade stalk away in a huff. “Fascinating. It’s hopeless you know.”

“What is hopeless?”

“Molly wouldn’t go on a date with him. She doesn’t like him that way.”

“And who exactly does she like ‘that way’?”

“Well… me.” The statement sounded quite matter-of-fact. If it had been another man John would have written him off as a pompous dick but it was Sherlock. Well, Sherlock WAS a dick but he was Sherlock. He was simply stating a fact, a fact that even John knew was correct.

“Is there somebody you like ‘that way’?”

Sherlock looked relieved to see Lestrade come back. Even if the older man was still miffed, Sherlock didn’t have to answer John’s question. “They are done. What is your idea Watson?”

“Molly won’t stay with us but it is clear she needs protection. Can you have a copper stay with Molly instead?”

“I’ll stay,” Lestrade said, much too quickly for Sherlock’s preference. 

“NO.” The firmness of Sherlock’s assertion made his position quite clear. As it would happen the other two men in the room didn’t care what Sherlock’s position was. Molly’s safety was more important.

“That is not your decision to make Sherlock,” A new voice entered the conversation. The men turned to find Molly leaning against the wall, anger clearly written all over her face. It was obvious she had heard more than just the last part of that conversation. “And you have no idea whether I would go on a date with Lestrade or not. He’s never asked.” Molly paused her speech but stepped closer to Sherlock. Lestrade opened his mouth to ask what she was talking about but John held up a hand to stop him. “If any situation were hopeless it is between you and me. Utterly and completely hopeless.” Molly looked at Lestrade. “I would be most grateful if you would stay. But…” She paused. “…I can’t be in this flat right now, not after what happened to Michelle, then me, in less than 24 hours. Could I…” Molly’s demeanor turned shy when she looked in Lestrade’s eyes. “…could I perhaps stay with you?”

“YES!” Lestrade’s relieved answer was embarrassingly enthusiastic and quick on the draw. Molly simply smiled gently.

Of course this didn’t sit well with the consulting detective. “Lestrade, I thought you were back with your wife.”

“That’s what you get for thinking Sherlock,” The older detective’s demeanor oozed smug satisfaction. “The bitch moved in with the wanker. I’m just glad I don’t have kids.” Lestrade looked at Molly. “Are you sure?”

She nodded. “Yes. I need to get out of here, someplace different. I know…” She smiled with a hint of embarrassment as she lowered her eyes to her hands. “…I know you won’t let anything happen to me.”

Sherlock watched with surprise on his face. He felt like he was watching a train wreck, from moments before until moments after. He knew it would be gruesome but he couldn’t seem to take his eyes away from it. It was hypnotic in its utter absurdity. “But…”

Molly looked at Sherlock. “I’m doing what you said. You said I needed to go somewhere safe. I would think that the house of a DI is even safer than the flat of a highly-functional sociopath who shoots bullets into his wall and murders violin concertos when he’s bored. Heaven knows what you would do to me should you get bored.” She turned back to the DI. “I have to work today…”

Sherlock needed to somehow assert his importance into a situation that he’d somehow lost control of. He coughed and said, “I’ll call Mike. You shouldn’t have to work today.”

Molly looked ready to shoot him in the head with his own pistol. “Once again, Sherlock, that is not your decision to make. Stop making decisions for me and go solve the case. I’m going to work.” She looked back at the DI. “Let me pack a few things and get ready for work.”

Lestrade, with a grin that would rival a Cheshire who was just given a bowl of fresh cream laced with catnip, shook his head. “Why don’t you get your belongings together and you can get ready at my place? I’ll make breakfast and you don’t have to rush around.”

Molly smiled at him brightly. “That sounds brilliant. Thank you…” She threw him a playful smirk, keeping one eye on Sherlock to gauge his reaction. “…Greg.” Her grin spread when she caught Sherlock’s strangled gasp. “Now…” She smiled gently at John. “…I think we are finished for tonight. I am sorry for the continued inconvenience I have caused and promise not to call you again with any emergencies.”

“Please, Molly, please call us if something happens. And Greg, you need to find Eric Livingston. Sherlock thinks he’s in danger.” 

“If you can believe it, Sherlock, I actually thought of that. Based on the travel itinerary he left in the house, I’ve got men en route to his location now.”

John nodded because Sherlock was speechless. In fact he looked like he had swallowed a bitter lemon. “Well…” Without taking his eyes, or smile, from the petite pathologist, John grabbed Sherlock’s coat collar and turned toward the door. “…we’ll leave you to it. I’m sure Sherlock will be in touch should anything come up. Greg, let us know the progress of your living arrangements.” John nearly howled with laughter at Sherlock’s deep breath and narrowed look. He was taking great sadistic humor in Sherlock’s discomfort. “Come along detective boy. You have a mystery to solve.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thanks again for reading. And remember: this IS a Sherlolly story. I know it seems bad between Sherlock and Molly but don’t lose hope! Stick around for more!**


	9. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters are not mine. The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don’t get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing! 
> 
> This story is un-betaed.

**Chapter 8**

_“Please, Molly, please call us if something happens.” John shot a look at Sherlock who looked like he had swallowed a bitter lemon. “Well…” Without taking his eyes, or smile, from the petite pathologist, grabbed Sherlock’s coat collar and turned toward the door. “…we’ll leave you to it. I’m sure Sherlock will be in touch should anything come up. Lestrade, let us know the progress of your living arrangements.” John nearly howled with laughter at Sherlock’s deep breath and narrowed look. He was taking great sadistic humor in Sherlock’s discomfort. “Come along detective boy. You have a mystery to solve.”_

 

“Greg, make yourself at home. I will be a few minutes.”

“Take your time.” He looked down as he felt something rub against his ankles. “Oh! Is this your cat?”

“That’s Toby. He’s very well behaved.”

“Then bring him along. I don’t know how long you’ll be at my house and you shouldn’t have to board him.”

Molly looked surprised but grateful. “Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

“Well…” Molly went to the kitchen and found his cat carrier in a cupboard. “Would you do me a favor and put him in his carrier? I’ll round up the dishes and food when I’m done packing.”

“I can do that.”

“Ok…” She pointed to the items in the same cupboard as the carrier was. “His travel items are in there.”

“Great. Go. Get ready. We’ll be alright.” With a smile Molly turned and went to her bedroom. But her mind wasn’t on her present living arrangement. It was on Sherlock. And herself. And what they did all those months ago. And Greg. She knew she seemed to be stringing him along, which certainly was not something she normally did. But she was reveling in the fact that a man, a handsome man, clearly liked her and wasn’t afraid to show her. It was reassuring and something she found she needed at that moment. Molly got such mixed signals from Sherlock, it left her confused and a bit heartbroken. 

Before she knew it she was packed and they were on their way to Lestrade’s house. “Um, Molly…” he began, reluctant to say anything but was overwhelmingly curious just the same. “…you’ve… you’ve changed since Sherlock’s fall.” She waited for him to continue but when he didn’t she sighed.

“Yes I guess I have.”

“This is a side of you I never expected to see.”

“Actually I never thought I had it in me.”

“What… I mean, after you, um…” He seemed reluctant to say the word. “…and Sherlock… um…”

“Did the deed?”

Stopping at a traffic light Lestrade squirmed in his seat. “Yes. Didn’t you realize that he isn’t capable of a meaningful relationship with a woman?”

“So… is that what everybody thinks this is? That I was hoping it was more than what it really was? That I saw something that wasn’t really there?”

“Well… yes.”

“Wow. What little you boys know about me.” Molly shook her head and let out a ‘pffft!’ of indignation. “Do you really want to know what happened?” When he didn’t answer she continued. “At first it was casual. And I was alright with that because I’m not stupid. I know enough about Sherlock to realize I wasn’t going to get any more than that. I know he’s not capable of healthy, meaningful relationships. We were both stressed and needed a release, and I wouldn’t let him have his gun and violin in the flat. It went a long way to breaking the ice between us but…”

“But…??”

“But it became something more than casual. He began confiding in me, telling me things about himself, and his life, that I don’t know if he’s told anybody else. I don’t know if he simply felt comfortable enough with me to tell me, if he really wanted me to know or if I had become important enough for him to confide in me. And I shared with him things I don’t normally tell others. During that month we became… intimate… in every way possible. Then, all of the sudden, he left and acted as if nothing happened. He even went so far as to say that everything he told me was a lie.”

“He’s lying Molly.”

“Of course he’s lying but why say it in the first place? And to my face? Perhaps I am expecting a better filtration system between his brain and his mouth but…” Lestrade chuckled but let her continue. Molly gave him a sad little smile. “…it’s probably a pipe dream to think there was ANY filtration system between his brain and his mouth.”

“I don’t confess to know a whole lot about Sherlock other than he’s a brilliant mind with no concept of tact. But Molly, he’s changed too. Jumping off a building and fooling the very few people he holds with any sort of respect into thinking he was dead really has changed him. And if you hadn’t have helped him you would have been in that category as well. But you need to talk to him. If you are able to…”

“No Greg. Talking doesn’t do it. Why do you think I’ve changed? He needs to see, for himself, he can’t treat people like he did and expect them to still be there for him. And I won’t stand for it. Do you really think this is easy for me? This attitude, this confidence, isn’t me Greg. Whenever I see Sherlock, and put on this act, I cry afterwards. I turn a blind eye to what he is like around me because I can’t concentrate on that. Right now its survival, Greg, and I chose to no longer be a victim of Sherlock.”

“But for how long can you keep this up?”

She didn’t have an answer for him. 

…..

 

“So what happened?”

“Angie failed. She knocked him out.”

This surprised Falcon; after all one of the reasons Angie was hired was because of his linebacker size. Molly Hooper getting the best of the giant was the last thing Falcon ever thought would have happened. It seemed pointless to ask how it happened; it was only important that it DID happen. Falcon didn’t get upset about this latest development and he never got outwardly angry, at least whenever his closest confidante, and business partner, was around. If people really understood what was going on between these two men, they could say they were closer than brothers. And they were. They were like yin to yang. So Camel knew what Falcon was thinking. 

“This troubles me Camel.”

“What do we do about Angie?”

Falcon pondered for a minute. “Nothing. While this is quite distressing, it is also the reason I hire people anonymously. Angie, just like all of our contracted associates, has no idea who we are or how to contact us. There is nothing to tie us back to him. Angie is a very good operative and I can’t afford to lose him.”

“But you had Sally killed after the Georgie hit.”

“Sally was a fucking moron. He was getting sloppy. Don’t forget Davenport, Camel, and the shit storm we were barely able to cover up. No, the imbecile had it coming. But we can’t afford to lose Angie. He’s one of the best American contractors working in Europe at the moment.” 

“He was taken to the hospital, handcuffed to the gurney. The police will certainly question him.”

“Angie was trained by Special Forces during the Afghanistan fiasco. The man’s been waterboarded. I don’t think we have anything to worry about. Besides, nothing can be traced back to us because he was never given anything to start with. I’ll see if I can pull some strings to get him released earlier. I have contacts who owe me favors but Angie will just be out of commission for awhile.”

“So… what do you want to do about Miss Hooper Falcon?”

“Nothing right now. I am leaving in an hour to take care of Livingston…”

“Where is he?”

“Conservation conference in Zurich. But I’ll be back in London. Lay low and keep the surveillance on Holmes, Watson and Hooper. Do not do anything; only watch. I’ve got them exactly where I want them. Holmes cannot… will not… beat us.” Falcon looked at Camel with pride. “We are so close to being done. When we’ve finished here in London we’ll have everything in place and all we have to do is sit back and watch our little enterprise grow into something beautiful and monstrous.” Camel simply nodded then watched as Falcon left the car and blended in with the crowd around him.

…..

Mrs. Hudson was a genteel woman in her mid-seventies. She had a husband once, Mr. Hudson, a man whom, when they were first married, was just as genteel and quite pleasant in his own way. But as the years went on, and after the children were grown, another side of Mr. Roger Hudson emerged, one that, for the first time in her life, left Mrs. Hudson feeling genuinely frightened for her life. 

She couldn’t quite remember the time or the place or the event which precipitated Roger Hudson’s seeming personality change but when the man announced to his wife his intention of moving to Florida with his, surprise, much younger mistress (the only surprise was the age of the mistress), the prim and proper woman had to stop herself from happily dancing naked across Waterloo Bridge. In morning rush hour. 

And, later, when he got himself into a pickle with the Florida law, Mrs. Hudson hired a certain young consulting detective to prove that he was as guilty as sin. Of which he was, of course. Now that her ex-husband (she had such a happy smile whenever she said that) was rotting on death row, to show her never ending gratefulness to the young man for freeing her she gave him a great rate for a two-bedroom Central London flat in the building she owned. 

At times the arrangement was a great idea. At others, like when Sherlock shot up the wall because he was bored, it didn’t seem like quite a great idea. Or when she found body parts in the refrigerator? She no longer tried to tell him to stop. The boy didn’t listen to her anyway but… she saw him as an extremely intelligent boy who just didn’t understand that people weren’t like him. He wasn’t evil and he had a good heart (most of the time) but he was… Sherlock. There was no changing him. 

Mrs. Hudson had been appraised by John what was happening with Molly, a woman of whom Mrs. Hudson held in great esteem. After all, she knew Molly helped him after The Incident; once Sherlock’s status had been made public (Mrs. Hudson heard about it on the telly. She still didn’t know if she could forgive Sherlock for breaking the news to her in that way.), Molly had confided in her about the time Sherlock stayed in her flat. Molly made the older woman promise not to tell anybody about her role but Molly just couldn’t keep it to herself any longer. She was working through her feelings for the consulting detective and needed somebody who knew him to give her advice. Molly certainly couldn’t talk to John about it. 

And Mrs. Hudson was quite grateful for the trust that Molly put in her. She was also grateful to know that Sherlock COULD actually have sex. She was getting so worried about her young tenant…

It was after six a.m. the morning after Molly’s friend had been found dead (she didn’t know yet about Molly’s run in with Mr. Impressively Large Man), and for some odd reason Mrs. Hudson was awake. She didn’t know why but she was. As she made some tea for herself she heard the front door open followed by muffled voices. Going to the door she opened it a crack and put her ear to the open space…

“She told you, Sherlock, she does not want to come to Baker Street. I don’t blame her; shagging her like that then treating her like nothing happened. I am surprised that…”

“What? You’re surprised about what? That I would treat her like that? Don’t be so naïve. Why does everybody think I’m abandoning her?”

“So you care for her?”

“I didn’t say that…”

“Bull shit!”

“Fine, believe what you want.”

“If you had seen you these past few days… hell, this past YEAR…”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Sherlock…” John paused and Mrs. Hudson leaned in closer, hoping to hear better. “…you have been avoiding her but, when you are together, you look ready to pounce on her.”

“I don’t care for her!”

His vehemence wasn’t convincing either John or Mrs. Hudson, who shook her head. _That poor boy is going to make himself miserable if he doesn’t do something about this…_

“Fine. You say you don’t care about her. But damn it you can’t have it both ways so stop acting like you can!”

Sherlock sighed and leaned against the wall. Mrs. Hudson could hear the tired dejection in the man’s voice, something she never thought she’d ever hear from Sherlock. “Just because we had sex doesn’t mean I’m Molly’s lapdog. I have got to keep her at a distance. I can’t work any other way. I can’t LIVE any other way. Why can’t people understand that?”

“But you don’t want to keep her at a distance. And yes, that wasn’t a question. That was an observation.”

“I know what we’ll do. Let’s all go on Oprah and have it out there. It would seem that American talk shows are the only way to truly solve relationship problems. If Oprah decides that I can’t be without Molly, and that she is my soul mate, I have to abide by her determination. Oprah knows everything, right?” Mrs. Hudson could almost hear Sherlock’s eyes rolling.

“Oprah’s not on the telly anymore.”

“Bloody hell,” Sherlock’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “There’s no hope for us now.”

“All I’m saying is you can’t have sex then act as if nothing happened. Especially with a woman like Molly. Molly feels everything quite deeply and she loved you for so long. I am very sure that sex with you wasn’t casual for her. How did it happen anyway?”

“You’re the doctor, you should know the mechanics.”

“I’m actually surprised you do.”

“The porn on your laptop was quite informative.” Mrs. Hudson couldn’t hear anything else as the boys ran up the stairs and slammed the door shut. With a sigh she went back into her flat and shook her head. She could read the mood Sherlock was in and was thankful she was no longer sleepy. She wasn’t about to get any more sleep that morning.


	10. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters are not mine. The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don’t get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing! 
> 
> This story is un-betaed.

**Chapter 9**

_“All I’m saying is you can’t have sex then act as if nothing happened. Especially with a woman like Molly. Molly feels everything quite deeply and she loved you for so long. I am very sure that sex with you wasn’t casual for her. How did it happen anyway?”_

_“You’re the doctor, you should know the mechanics.”_

_“I’m actually surprised you do.”_

_“The porn on your laptop was quite informative.” Mrs. Hudson couldn’t hear anything else as the boys ran up the stairs and slammed the door shut. With a sigh she went back into her flat and shook her head. She could read the mood Sherlock was in and was thankful she was no longer sleepy. She wasn’t about to get any more sleep that morning._

 

“I can’t thank you enough for this Greg,” Molly gushed, grateful and relieved that she didn’t have to spend any more time in her flat. “And again, thank you for letting me bring Toby.”

Greg smiled. He was realizing he would do just about anything for Molly. “I’m happy to do it.”

“You are a good friend Greg.” This made the lonely DI deflate a bit. That certainly wasn’t what he wanted…

“Here is where you will sleep…” He showed her to a room down the hall from his own. He didn’t want to freak the girl out by giving her the room across from his. That certainly wasn’t the way to woo the woman. “…and there’s a loo en suite so you have plenty of privacy.” Greg set the overnight bag on the bed and stepped back to the doorway. “How about I make us some breakfast?”

She nodded and smiled then looked at her watch. “I have to be at the morgue in two hours.”

“I can drive you there if you like.”

“You don’t have to…”

“I want to. We need to keep you safe and the easiest way to do that is to drive you where you need to go. Please… let me do my job. If something should happen to you…” Greg sighed. “…Sherlock would have my head.”

Molly shrugged nonchalantly. “I doubt he would care.”

“Oh I don’t know about that…” Greg turned to leave but then stopped. He didn’t turn around as he said, “…we will get whoever killed your friend.”

“I never had any doubt about that.” Molly sighed resignedly. “I have Sherlock on my side; what could go wrong?”

…..

Later that day, when John got back to the flat after running a few errands, he found Sherlock pointing something at the wall. 

POP! 

“SHERLOCK! STOP IT!” John screamed over the popping of the handgun in the consulting detective’s hands. He rushed to his friend’s side. “Why are you shooting up the wall? You can’t be bored!”

“I’m not bored!” POP! POP! POP! “Do you happen to notice what is attached to my gun?” He whipped the gun in front of John. 

“A silencer. That’s nice. What’s the point?”

Sherlock looked at John as if John were a space alien who’d just informed Sherlock the reason for his visit to earth was to mate with him. “What’s the point? I think you’ve been hanging out at the Tesco far too long. Why haven’t you asked Ms. Morstan out already?” John’s mouth opened with indignation but he slapped it shut. “I’m testing gun patterns…”

“Bull shit. It’s a good try but you’re a lot more transparent than you think. No, you’re pissed off about Molly staying with Greg.” Sherlock turned his back on John with a huff. “Makes you wonder what they will be doing to get to know each other better, doesn’t it? I wonder if her bedroom is across the hall from his…” Sherlock sent John a death glare then turned back to the wall. John’s head cocked to the side. “…and she has been through a very traumatic day. She will probably have nightmares. Do you think that when she has them he’ll go to her room and comfort her? And just what kind of comfort do you think he’ll provide?”

Sherlock’s hand gripped and un-gripped the gun. “We need ballistics on the gun that killed Georgie Callivario thirteen years ago.” Sherlock’s voice had lowered to a menacing tone. Even John knew it was time to quit the goading. “See if it matches the gun found on the guy in Molly’s flat.”

“Do you think it will match?”

“No but it must be eliminated.”

“What makes you so sure Molly’s intruder isn’t Falcon?”

“John must I really walk you through everything? You’re concentrating more what you think is there with Molly than the case. Why do you think I avoid this sort of thing?” Sherlock stepped closer to the wall to examine the holes. “The one who orders the hit never does the dirty work. Why do you think they have henchmen? Or contract killers? They can’t afford to be directly implicated in anything. But we need to search ballistics imaging from around the world. There is a chance that if we can find where this gun has been used, we could, possibly, track down who the gun belongs to.”

“But according to what you just said it won’t be Falcon.” John said, stepping closer to the wall. “How do gun patterns and striations help this case? Michelle Livingston was strangled.”

“I would have hoped, by now, that you had realized I’m not concentrating on a lowly housewife.” John looked at Sherlock in horror. Sherlock simply rolled his eyes in response. “I think you know what I mean. Michelle Livingston is a small fish in a huge fishbowl of criminal behavior.” John’s eyebrow rose at the analogy but he didn’t say anything. “When we discover who this Falcon is, we discover who murdered her, obviously. And we discover why she was murdered. John…” Sherlock took a moment for John to acknowledge the seriousness in his countenance. “…I want him. I want to know who Falcon is and how he has eluded everybody for so long. He’s not Moriarty...” 

“He is, in some ways. He’s ruthless and willing to do whatever he wants to serve his purpose. Only he’s not crazy jealous of you.”

Sherlock’s head cocked. “You are right. Falcon seems very detached. He doesn’t want glory for what he does because he understands that anonymity is his best friend. Moriarty had a raging ego problem. And, in some ways, that makes Falcon even more dangerous and that much more elusive.” Sherlock looked back at the wall. “John, if your Keyser Soze analogy is correct, he will need to stay mythical.” Sherlock turned to John, still holding the gun. “And myths don’t walk up and present themselves for your perusal.”

“In the movie Keyser Soze never contacted anybody himself. He used his lawyer to do his dirty work.” John looked back at his roommate, friend and fellow crime fighter. “I think we need to determine just how many crimes that gun was used in. Then find the shooter and glean more information about who hired him and how it was done.”

“Lovely thought John but exactly how will you get them to talk to us? I suspect he wouldn’t be too eager to have tea and ‘shoot the breeze’, as Americans would say. Besides, don’t you think the police tried to locate the bullet thirteen years ago?” Sherlock’s question wasn’t one of provocation. He truly wanted John’s opinion.

“Perhaps but, then, they could have written it off as a bad guy bumping off another bad guy, thereby ridding the world of the scum, and left it alone.”

Sherlock nodded. “That seems possible. It is the untamed Midwest, home of Wyatt Earp and Jesse James.”

“You aren’t one to subscribe to stereotypes Sherlock. You hate them.”

“Perhaps.” Sherlock paused and dropped the gun on the sofa on his other side. The sofa’s arm exploded with a POP! 

“HOLY…!!” John’s expletive was muffled as he hit the floor. They heard a scream and a thump and the men turned to see a woman crouching in the doorway, her hands covering her head, a fresh bullet hole at the top of the doorway. John was the first to respond, jumping up and running to the frightened woman. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” The woman shakily responded. She stood up and regarded the two men, wringing her hands to calm her nerves. “Is this how you treat all your prospective clients?”

“As a matter of fact that was …” Sherlock said, turning his back to the woman, dramatically flaring his dressing gown at what John assumed to be a pompous, bratty attempt at intimidation. The woman clearly wasn’t intimidated. She was rapidly calming and was now evaluating her new surroundings. “A test.”

“And how did I do?”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively at her and John, rolling his eyes, turned to the woman. “Please ignore him. Sherlock is working through a rather difficult puzzle at present.”

“Not difficult John just out of my reach. So many variables I cannot manipulate…”

“Manipulate?” The woman asked. She watched the detective with brilliant blue eyes that contrasted nicely with her ginger hair. Sherlock studied her for a moment. The woman was perhaps a few pounds overweight but on the tall side, around 5’10”. She wore a very stylish and slimming skirt suit and a royal blue silk blouse unbuttoned dangerously low, hugging her generous bosom. Given the cut of the suit, the expense of her simple jewelry and the haute couture look of her shoes, this woman was wealthy with a very impressive eye for understated and definitely conservative fashion. Her wedding ring was very clean but not new so she was happily married. And her breasts were real. That gave Sherlock a moment of confused ire. Since when did he pay attention to womanly parts? Since he’d spent some quality time with Molly’s? “Detectives aren’t supposed to manipulate the variables of a case.”

“Oh don’t mind him…” John said. “Sherlock doesn’t have access to all the information he needs and it is killing him.”

“No it’s not.” The subject in question snapped at the man.

“Anyway…” John said and looked back at the woman. “I am Dr. John Watson and he is…”

“Sherlock Holmes. Yes, I know.”

John’s eyebrow, and curiosity, rose but he didn’t say anything. “What can we help you with Miss…?”

“Missus Abigail Turner.” Abigail pulled an envelope from her bag but kept it to her side. “I received a letter in the post today…”

“Really? Congratulations. You must be somebody special…” Sherlock snapped.

Abigail ignored the swipe. “I believe I am being watched as a target.”

“A target? A target for what?”

“I have no idea. I have a high profile job but nothing that would warrant something like this.” She leaned against the wall but John took her arm and gently helped her to a chair in the middle of the room. 

“Let me fix you some tea Mrs. Turner.” John said, going to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

“What is your profession?” Sherlock asked as he took the seat beside the woman.

“I’m a fashion designer.” She pulled out her card and showed it to him. Even Sherlock had heard of the brand.

“You’re the owner of Winthrop and Wallace?”

Abigail nodded. “One of them. I’m Winthrop. My business partner is Wallace.”

“Is that your maiden name?”

“No. It’s my married name. I use my maiden name in public.” 

And as much as he didn’t want to admit it, Sherlock was impressed with this woman. It was clear she was smart, which lent to her credibility and his decision to actually listen to her. However, she still didn’t seem like the type of person to receive such a letter, which only made this case that much more intriguing. Sherlock folded his hands together under his chin and regarded the woman. “Are you sure the letter is legitimate?”

Abigail shrugged. “Whether it is or it isn’t, it’s quite worrisome. Whoever sent that to me doesn’t sound as if they have all their faculties with them if you catch my meaning.” 

Sherlock’s ears perked and he locked eyes on the letter sitting in the woman’s lap. “How did you hear about us Mrs. Turner?”

“My husband is a work colleague of Molly Hooper’s. And I am a personal friend of hers as well.” She looked up and smiled charmingly at John who smiled dopily at her. Sherlock simply eyed the woman who suddenly gasped. Abigail looked at Sherlock. “Wait… does this have to do with Molly?”

Sherlock was surprised to hear that question. “What makes you say that?”

Abigail eyed the man Molly called ‘the master of deduction’. She had been very impressed; she’d never met somebody as smart and alert as he was. And she’d met a lot of people in her journeys. “The way you reacted to my mentioning of Molly. You perked up there.”

John set down the tea service on the table in front of the others and waved his hand dismissively. “That’s only because he’s in love with her. He perks up like a love-sick puppy at the mention of her name.”

“JOHN!” Sherlock roared and the woman snorted rather unladylike. 

“I’m sure Molly would be thrilled to hear that.” Neither man could ascertain whether that statement was sarcastic or not. Abigail finally handed the envelope to Sherlock. “Read it for yourself and determine whether it’s legitimate or not.”

Sherlock eyed her with impatience before he stood up and took the letter to the window for better light. He took a few moments to study the envelope. “There’s nothing particularly unusual or different about this envelope.” He held it up to the light, turning it this way and that. He then extracted the folded letter but kept his eyes on the envelope. “It looks to be an ordinary security envelope, one that could be purchased at any discount shop.” He then opened the letter and something fell out, fluttering to the ground. John gasped and Sherlock said, “Hmmm…” Leaning over he picked it up and held it in the light. “I’ll take the case.” Sherlock muttered, studying the falcon feather in the light.


	11. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters are not mine. The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don’t get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing! 
> 
> This story is un-betaed.

**Chapter 10**

_Sherlock eyed her with impatience before he stood up and took the letter to the window for better light. He took a few moments to study the envelope. “There’s nothing particularly unusual or different about this envelope.” He held it up to the light, turning it this way and that. He then extracted the folded letter but kept his eyes on the envelope. “It looks to be an ordinary security envelope, one that could be purchased at any discount shop.” He then opened the letter and something fell out, fluttering to the ground. John gasped and Sherlock said, “Hmmm…” Leaning over he picked it up and held it in the light. “I’ll take the case.” Sherlock muttered, studying the falcon feather in the light._

 

Mrs. Turner’s eyebrow rose. “Aren’t you even going to read the letter?”

“The element of importance to this letter, and your involvement, is the feather.” John could see that Sherlock was intentionally refusing to read the letter. He couldn’t believe how childish his friend was being.

“Well, if you aren’t going to read the letter I will.” John walked up to Sherlock but was unsuccessful in swiping it from him. 

While Abigail didn’t have children she understood how they worked. And she completely agreed with Molly’s assessment of Sherlock being a 5-year-old in a 30-year-old body. “I wouldn’t be so sure Mr. Holmes,” She placed her cup back on the saucer, set the cup and saucer on the table, and stood up to join the men at the window. “It seems rather interesting that I would come to you with a letter, with a feather enclosed in it, and you don’t find the situation incredible or outstanding. This means you have a current situation involving either errant letters to random individuals or feathers.” She paused then cocked her head to the side. “Given that you won’t even read the letter, I will go with feathers.”

Sherlock snorted then looked at her. “Who is the detective here?”

“At the moment? Me. Since you won’t actually read the letter I don’t know how much faith I put in you at the present.”

This made Sherlock’s nose flare and, with a dramatic flourish, opened the folded letter. It read:

The end is near 4-2-1_5

And justice will tear the prey. 7-1-1

I demand you listen, 7z -6-2

And consciously process what I say. 6-8-1

 

Live beyond simply the here and now, 5z-4-3

Meditate on what you know and what I’ve provided. 1z-3-1

Vice corrupts absolutely as forgives covers all; 8z-4-2

Lies are truths divided and truths are lies undivided. 5-3-5

 

Not today. Not tomorrow. Neither now nor never later. 1-5-1

 

Of what governs the multitude 3z-3-1

Will soon see a stark reality. 3-4-2

Twin motives, twin deceptions, twin contradictions. 6z-6-3

What was one is now duality. 9-5-2

 

Now before you run to your agile brain 4a-1-2

To tell you what you think you know, do not. 9z-5-2

Stop for a moment; all isn’t and all is not. 8-7-2

What seems what if really is if not. 4z-3-1

 

Not today. Not tomorrow. Never now but maybe later? 1a-9-11

 

This little poem, full of misconstrued ideas and nonsensical jumbles, 2a-6-1_4

Is thankfully and mercifully nearly concluded. 3a-5-2

I am sure by now you realize what is happening, 2z-3-1

and what, or who, have colluded. 2-6-2

 

“It’s juvenile and obscure…” He handed the letter to John like a huffy child who’d been given peas for dinner when he really wanted pizza. It was clear that Sherlock really didn’t read it. It was also clear that he didn’t see it worthy to be considered.

“But it’s uniform in its composure…” John added after he studied it. “Every four lines comprise one association. Every other line has the same quantity of words. But these two lines…” He pointed to the two lines in the poem that were by themselves and the other adults leaned in to see what he was saying. “…are separate. Why?”

Abigail looked at the twin crime fighters as if they were insane. “You can’t seriously be dissecting the letter for composition, can you? Never mind the quantity of words and the line structure. What do the numbers at the end mean?”

“It’s a cipher. Anybody would know that.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Why must all the bad guys use ciphers? It’s starting to get very old. Can’t they be creative anymore?” And John was instantly reminded of an ancient teapot, yellow spray paint (that damned ASBO that took forever to get off his record), a jade hairpin and the Great Book Hunt. John was in full agreement with Sherlock. When he blogs about this case he’ll need to mention to the bad guys that if they use ciphers they will just make Sherlock mad. And Sherlock will win that much quicker. Just not a good thing for bad guys. 

Abigail was ignoring Sherlock’s questions. “And…? What are you going to do about it?”

“Do I look like a cryptologist?”

“You’re the supposed genius, Mr. Holmes. Exactly how can I kill you to make it look like an accident?” Abigail balled her fists and restrained herself from punching him in the nose.

“Touchy.”

“Enough children,” John finally interjected. “Mrs. Turner, composition seems to be very important to the author. Perhaps the numbers have something to do with the structure of the poem.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course it does John. I don’t have time to sit down and doodle my way through this letter.”

“Fine,” Abigail ground her teeth. “Just answer me one question…”

“Better make it a good one. You only get the one.”

“Just how the hell do you get to be a world famous detective with that attitude? I thought you’d be dead by now.”

“Ah, see, I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you.” He paused and grinned then cocked his head. “Gingers are feisty when they’re angry.”

John knew he desperately needed to get the conversation back on track. “Sherlock, I think this poem means there’s a mole who is trying to pass information to us.”

“Once you stop stating the obvious we’ll be able to get down to business,” Sherlock snapped.

Abigail agreed with John. “Yes Dr. Watson. But this letter was intended for you Mr. Holmes.” 

Sherlock, who was on a roll with the snark, looked incredulous. “You too Mrs. Turner? Is this National State the Obvious Day and nobody told me? If it is, why couldn’t I have gone to Wales, where they wouldn’t recognize the obvious if it slapped them on the face and danced the flamingo with flaming batons? This mole, as you are calling them, purposefully sent you the letter to confuse me. It’s obvious they’ve never met me before; it won’t stump me for long.”

“Now if it were a letter asking you about your feelings you’d be stumped for weeks,” John muttered under his breath which earned him a glare from his friend.

Abigail, who just happened to take yoga several times a week, employed her deep breathing exercises. Otherwise there would’ve been another murder to solve. “And, before you say it, I didn’t send the letter to myself. Just tell me something Mr. Boy Genius…”

“That is Mr. Man Genius to you thank you very much.”

“Fine Man-Cub…” John rolled his eyes. He should’ve nipped the mutual snarking in the bud just as it started but John had to admit it was quite amusing watching them two go at it. It had been a long time since he’d seen somebody hold their own against Sherlock. If the woman wasn’t clearly happily married (yes, he noticed the wedding ring too), he would’ve been asking this lovely lady out for dinner. “…why was this sent to me?”

“How the bloody hell am I supposed to know?”

“Isn’t it your job to find out?”

“Actually,” John offered. “We don’t get paid for this.”

“You subject yourself to torture for fun?” She directed the question to Watson.

“If we got paid we’d be nothing but whores.” Sherlock said, proud that he wasn’t a whore. “I am not a whore.”

“I can see that. How can virgins be whores?”

“I’ll have you know…”

“Ok, that’s it…” John stepped closer to Abigail. “As you can see, he’s in one of his moods. You’re only pissing him off more.”

“Fine. Then give me back the letter and I’ll be on my way.”

Sherlock sent her a look of indignant confusion. “Excuse me?”

“Yes. Give me the letter. You have yet to prove to me you are a real detective who can actually handle this case. Until you do I’m going…” John gasped as Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“Tell me, Mrs. Turner, why did you become a fashion designer? You graduated with a criminal justice degree from a New England University. You don’t find too many of Britain’s finest designing the force’s jumpers as they are busting crack heads.”

Abigail’s eyebrow rose as she studied the man, whose peacock feathers were unfurling as he strutted his intellectual machismo. “And why not a fashion design degree? There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Sherlock snorted in such a manner that would’ve surely vexed Mycroft. He was regretful that his big brother wasn’t there to hear it. “Because nobody goes to a prestigious, competitive East Coast American university to earn a fashion design degree. Your accent suggests you’ve spent several years in New England. You are British but you went abroad for your degree. Nobody travels abroad for something as shallow as a fashion degree.” Abigail scowled at that as Sherlock screwed his forehead in concentration. “You clearly display reasoning that falls in line with investigative deduction. That tells me you studied the criminal sciences. And you went to University abroad because that’s what kids who want to escape their parents do. But that’s not true; you are very close to your parents. The ring on your right pinkie finger is a purity ring, given to you by your parents. You hold them in very high regard. The ring means you’re Catholic or devout to some such restrictive religion. My guess the ring was a gift at a baptism or some obscenely idiotic ritual.”

Abigail stood rooted in her spot, a faint smile on her lips. “I’m not Catholic and the purity ring had nothing to do with religion. Since you don’t care about the reason for the ring I see no need to share it with you. And yes, I did graduate with a criminal justice degree from Endicott College in Massachusetts.” She left it at that.

Sherlock spread his hands and wiggled his fingers. “And…?”

“And what?”

“How did you go from putting people into prison jumpsuits to designing them?”

All she did was grin and Sherlock’s nostrils flared. This made Abigail laugh. “That wasn’t really investigative work Mr. Holmes. You’re an observer. It doesn’t mean you are actually any good at being a detective. There’s an American television show about a guy who consults with the police. His powers of investigation are equivalent to yours except, well, he’s a LOT hotter than you are.” She leaned forward. “The Australian actor does a very good American accent too.” Sherlock’s cheekbones tensed and his jaw locked. John looked a bit scared; he’d never seen his friend act like that. John knew Abigail was skating on very, VERY thin ice. 

“What’s your point Mrs. Turner?”

She never took her eyes off of Sherlock’s as she pointed to the letter. “I DARE you to break that code, and break it…” She looked down at her watch. “…by 10 a.m. tomorrow morning. If you can do it I’ll tell you anything you want, including my bra size.”

“36 DD.” Her eyebrow rose and John’s eyes went straight to her breasts. “Please. Give me something more difficult. I once correctly deduced the measurements of a naked woman.”

“How do you know they were correct?”

“Her safe opened.” Abigail’s mouth opened like a guppy then closed. “Fine. I will have the letter decoded by tomorrow and you’ll tell me the rest of your story.”

“Is my story really worth it?”

“No but that’s not the point.” Sherlock waved her toward the door. “I’m done with you. Be off insignificant peasant.”

She smirked and turned on her heel, throwing over her shoulder, “I’m not so insignificant if I get your g-string in a bunch.” With that she was out the door, leaving a fuming (but curious) detective and his gobsmacked best friend. 

 

.....

 

Once Abigail Turner was across town she pulled out her mobile phone and rung a number she knew by heart but didn’t keep in her phone’s memory. “It’s done.”

“Are you on your secure cell phone?” The gruff American voice that Abigail knew so well filled her ear.

“Of course I am. You didn’t train an idiot.”

“I know.” The man paused. “Very good. Did Holmes suspect?”

“Absolutely. He’s Sherlock Holmes. But he’s got too much of a mystery on his hands to worry about who I really am, at least for the time being. He’ll find out soon enough anyway.” She sighed. “He’s the world’s biggest prick but he’s very good. I’ve got him distracted though. I gave him until 10 a.m. tomorrow to figure out the letter.” 

“Do you have any idea where the letter came from?”

“I’m still working on that. I have a couple of theories but Falcon’s too elusive. Frankly I feel like the theories I’m coming up with are from outer space. Nobody’s any closer to knowing who he is now than when Georgie was killed thirteen years ago.” Abigail sighed. “But if only I had known what was going down, Samantha… err, Satin… would have still been alive.”

“I know Abigail. But you said it yourself: we need Holmes. It was why we didn’t give the letter to our guys to decipher. Holmes needs to be in on the case every step of the way. While the eyes of everybody, including Falcon, are on him we’ll be working to bring him and his network down.”

“Any luck with the guy pulled out of Hooper’s flat?”

“Not yet. There are no fingerprint matches and nothing is coming up anywhere. It’s like the man’s a massive ghost but I’ll let you know if we get anything.” The male voice paused. “We can’t compromise your safety or your identity. We have to keep this investigation at arm’s length. That is why we went to Holmes in the first place.” Abigail yawned and rubbed her eyes. “Go to your photo shoot. You still have your cover job to do. I’ll be in touch.”

“Right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: As the author I feel I must apologize for Sherlock’s stereotypical characterization of, well, lots of things. He was just as insulting to me, the author of this fan fiction, as he was to the people he insulted. He was ceaselessly calling me names and I came unbelievably close to kicking him in the nads. But he survived for another day and there will be chapters after this one. Thanks again for reading!**


	12. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters are not mine. The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don’t get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing! 
> 
> This story is un-betaed.

**Chapter 11**

_“Any luck with the guy pulled out of Hooper’s flat?”_

_“Not yet. There are no fingerprint matches and nothing is coming up anywhere. It’s like the man’s a massive ghost but I’ll let you know if we get anything.” The male voice paused. “We can’t compromise your safety or your identity. We have to keep this investigation at arm’s length. That is why we went to Holmes in the first place.” Abigail yawned and rubbed her eyes. “Go to your photo shoot. You still have your cover job to do. I’ll be in touch.”_

_“Right.”_

 

That night, Molly had decided to turn in early. It had been a hectic day and, after the awkwardness of the dinner with Lestrade and the lack of sleep from the night before, she was practically the walking dead. Molly grabbed Toby, who had made himself at home in the strange dwelling (rather unusual for the affectionate but somewhat finicky kitty), and shut and locked her door. With a sigh, she began undressing. When she got to completely naked, she suddenly felt The Presence. Nearly shrieking, she shrugged on the nearest item of clothing she could find, the button down collar shirt she had worn that day, and wrapped her arms around herself before turning to find Sherlock sitting on the bed, his eyes roaming her body, his breathing shallow and quick.

“For the love of God, you’ve got to stop doing that!” She kept her voice low as to not alert Lestrade. She really didn’t want to bring him into all of this. If she could get Sherlock out without Lestrade’s knowledge, it would be just that much easier for everybody.

“Do you know an Abigail Turner?” Sherlock’s eyes were riveted to her erect nipples, piercing nearly through the shirt and above the arms that didn’t quite cover them. 

But she did nothing make herself more modest. The simple fact that she knew she was torturing him, and deliberately not doing anything to ease his seeming suffering, just gave her that much more enjoyment. But when her brain shifted to what he said Molly dropped the torture and gave him an odd look. “Of course I do. Her husband is a work colleague. Why?”

Sherlock gave her a frank look before catching her eye. “She came to Baker Street with a letter and a feather.” Molly gasped. “It was mailed to her but directed at our investigation.”

“Why did she get it?”

“That seems to be the million dollar question. The only connection between Michelle Livingston and Abigail Turner is you. She said she never met them before.”

“I doubt they had met. It wasn’t like I invited the neighborhood when I had work colleagues over.” Molly groaned, sat on the bed beside Sherlock, and covered her face with her hands. “Why is this suddenly about me? I didn’t do anything.”

“This isn’t about you but it could be about something you know. Think. Did Michelle tell you anything strange or contrary to what you knew of her? Did she ever hint to anything out of the ordinary? Did you ever notice any activity that seemed out of place?”

Molly took a moment to think, something that Sherlock appreciated. So many people automatically just say ‘no’ then miss something that could be vital. After a few moments she shook her head. “No. They were a very ordinary family. He was gone a lot for work but when he was in town, from what I could see, he was a very good father. Stella, the daughter, was very beloved by both parents. Eric and Michelle seemed to truly love each other. And they genuinely liked each other, something that doesn’t always come with love. Michelle was quirky in her own way but that was why we loved her. She was great fun at parties. Very smart too.”

“Molly, did you know that Michelle was in the Witness Protection Program?”

This alarmed the woman. “She was?”

“I think so. I haven’t heard back from Mycroft but it is possible that Michelle was a stripper from Kansas City before she became Mother of the Year in London.” 

This completely surprised Molly. “Are you serious?!” Sherlock nodded, doing his best to be on his best behavior. Molly shook her head. “I won’t believe that until you show me definite proof. That is completely different from what I know of her. I…”

KNOCK, KNOCK. “Molly? Are you alright?” Greg’s question held a note of concern.

Molly made a shooing motion to the cupboard. “Get in there.”

“Why?”

“Molly? Is somebody in there?”

“No Greg!” She yanked Sherlock’s arm and pulled him toward the hiding place. “I’m on the phone. Hold on!” Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but she slammed the door and leaned against it. “Stay in there and be quiet!” Molly hissed then, grabbing her mobile, she marched to the bedroom door and flung it open. “Greg! I am sorry to bother you but…” She waved the mobile in the air. “…I was having a heated discussion with… my…” Greg’s eyebrow lifted with curious disbelief. “…my…”

“Lover.” Sherlock flung the door open and dramatically waltzed out, still wearing his coat and flaring it for emphasis. “Do you mind? We were having a private conversation.”

“HOLMES!!” Lestrade’s eyes flashed. “What the bloody hell are you doing in my house?”

“I’d like to ‘do’ your houseguest but I take it that isn’t allowed?” The tone was antagonistic laced with sarcasm. Molly suspected he only said it to get a reaction from the older man.

“SHERLOCK!” Molly roared as Lestrade yelled, “HOLMES!”

“What? So that’s a social no-no? It’s frowned upon to have sexual congress with your houseguest when you really want to do her yourself?”

“Sherlock, WHY must you do this? Why do you make every situation awkward and difficult?”

“What did I do?” He seemed genuinely confused. “I stated a fact. Since when is that wrong?”

Lestrade opened his mouth to argue when the phone on his hip rang. Narrowing his eyes he pointed at Sherlock but answered the phone. “What?” Lestrade’s eyes quickly widened. “Say that again.” Molly looked at Sherlock who was studying the DI rather intently. “Holy shit. When was it discovered?” Sherlock’s eyebrow rose as he quickly looked at Molly then back at the police man. Lestrade closed his eyes as he continued listening to the other end. “It will take several days to make a positive identification but fine. Tell them I’ll be on my way.” Lestrade clicked the smartphone off and threw it across the room, landing on Molly’s bed.

“What is it Greg?” Molly’s soft words tended to soothe the man which was needed at the present.

Lestrade wiped his face with his hand. “The body of Eric Livingston was found in a hotel room in Zurich. He’d been strangled and set on fire…”

“Fire?” Sherlock sounded confused.

“Oh my… oh my…” Molly began sobbing and Lestrade caught her just before she hit the floor. He carefully led her to the bed where she sank down on the edge and held her head in her hands, sobbing with the pain of the situation. Both Greg and Sherlock watched her, both seemingly unable to help her, not knowing what to do.

Sherlock, needing to think this situation through, began pacing. “Lestrade, focus. A fire?”

Greg, still watching Molly who was calming down, slowly nodded. “There was a feather taped to the outside of the door of the hotel room. The police said the fire was a very controlled burn, only scorching the rug around the body. It was enough to set off the sprinkler in the room, quickly putting out the fire. Hotel personnel found the body when their sprinkler alarm went off.” 

“Is it positive it’s Livingston?” Sherlock continued pacing, his mind going in different directions. Molly watched him as she dried her tears.

“We won’t know for sure until we get the DNA results. Zurich is handling the testing. They said they will rush the results through. We could know that in a day or two. But the room was registered to Eric Livingston, who was there for a conservation convention. Some personal effects were found as well, including his jewellery.” Lestrade looked at Molly. “If we brought you his personal effects would you be able to identify them?”

She shrugged then sniffled. “Perhaps. I can tell you what he wore every time I saw him. Michelle had a pinkie ring made for him, with hair from Stella’s first haircut inside. It is a very unique ring and I would recognize it immediately…” Molly put a lot of effort into making sure she didn’t break down again. Crying in front of the man who thought tears were insignificant was a real shitty situation for Molly. “…every time I saw him he wore it, either on his finger or a chain around his neck. If you find that ring it’s a sure bet the body is Eric’s.” Molly sniffled. The thought of losing another dear friend, in the short space of a few days, made her sick with disgust. She gasped lightly when she felt Sherlock stop beside her and place a gentle hand on her right wrist, rubbing the inside with his slightly calloused fingers. She looked up at him and caught his fleeting glance before he looked at Lestrade, anger and frustration lining his face.

“But the way the victim was killed doesn’t fit the pattern of Falcon’s known killings. It’s more likely the person who killed Eric knew him personally and held a grudge, in which case Falcon wouldn’t responsible.”

Lestrade shrugged. “Or the victim isn’t Eric and it’s completely unrelated to our case.”

Sherlock returned to pacing, his great coat billowing in his wake. “And the feather on the door? That isn’t just some big coincidence? It just doesn’t make sense.”

“Perhaps Livingston faked his death?”

“But why would he do that? People who lose their partners or spouses don’t fake their own deaths. They commit suicide.”

“Unless he killed her.”

Molly looked at him in horror. “Are you serious Greg? You didn’t know him. The man could have easily killed anybody in defense of his family but he was simply not capable of cold blooded murder. In fact I talked to him earlier today…”

“You did?” Sherlock stopped pacing. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t get the chance. He was frantic and told me he would let me know when he could get in. When Eric called back he had clearly been crying but couldn’t get a flight. The earliest one he could get was tonight.” Molly sighed and began crying even harder. “…and he was too late…”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade himself began pacing. “…the feather taped to the door would be deliberate if setting the victim on fire was part of the plan to begin with. Otherwise, what’s the point of leaving a feather if it’ll catch fire?” 

“But where were your men? Huh? You knew where he was, at least you said you did.”

“I don’t know but I’m going to find out. That’s why I’m going to Zurich.”

“And I’m coming with you.”

Lestrade looked at Sherlock in horror. “No you aren’t.”

“Yes I am. I’ve been pulled even more into this mystery.” Sherlock produced the letter for Lestrade to study. “A friend of Molly’s paid me a visit today. She received this letter in the mail along with this feather…” He held up the feather and Greg gasped. “So now I’m in this as much as you are. And I need to see the crime scene.”

Lestrade sighed then nodded. “Fine. I’ll get somebody to stay with Molly…”

“No, she’s coming with us.” Sherlock stated in a tone that suggested he thought Lestrade was crazy for not considering it sooner. 

“What?!?” Both onlookers shrieked.

“Molly…” Sherlock took Molly’s shoulders in both his hands and looked deeply in her eyes. He needed to ignore the tears in her eyes and the sadness of the big brown orbs in front of him. He never knew puppy dog eyes could be so effective… “We may need you to identify him. Can you do that?” Molly’s head cocked at Sherlock’s question as she stared him in the eye. It was almost… almost… like he cared or something. Before she could analyze it further, Lestrade’s ranting interrupted the somewhat poignant moment.

“I don’t know what kind of a heartless bastard you are but to ask the friend of the deceased to visit the crime scene and identify the body…” 

“Yes Sherlock, I will come with you.”

“What?!?” Lestrade snapped but didn’t get a response as Sherlock took a few moments to silently contemplate her then, in a huff, walked around the adults and shouted from the hallway, “Hurry up! We’ve got a body to identify and we need to pick up John! Hurry!”


	13. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since ya'll have been such good readers, here's a bonus chapter for today. Thanks again!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters are not mine. The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don’t get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing! 
> 
> This story is un-betaed.

**Chapter 12**

 

_“I don’t know what kind of a heartless bastard you are but to ask the friend of the deceased to visit the crime scene and identify the body…”_

_“Yes Sherlock, I will come with you.”_

_“What?!?” Lestrade snapped but didn’t get a response as Sherlock took a few moments to silently contemplate her then, in a huff, walked around the adults and shouted from the hallway, “Hurry up! We’ve got a body to identify and we need to pick up John! Hurry!”_

 

“Oh Mary…” John groaned and arched his hips toward the woman who had his manhood between her extremely talented lips. And tongue. His fingers weaved through her hair as he gasped, trying to regulate his breathing so that he didn’t come in her mouth. Mary hummed with approval and wrapped long fingers around the base of his shaft, rubbing her thumbs over his sensitive balls. “Mary… I can’t…”

With a POP! she withdrew her mouth and crawled over him. Quickly grabbing the condom he held out, she dressed him and slid down, eliciting groans and sighs from the both of them. John was very happy she didn’t start slow. It was happening very quickly and just before he hit his crescendo his phone rang. It rang the very distinctive ring John had designated specifically for Sherlock. John lost himself in his orgasm, forgetting about the ringing phone. When Mary came down from her high, she collapsed against him and sighed with relief and amazement. 

“John, if I’d known sex with you was like this I wouldn’t have waited.”

He chuckled with pride. “And Sherlock thought I haven’t asked you out yet. I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he realizes we’ve been dating for several months.”

Mary placed her hands on his chest and settled her chin on them. “I thought he was The Master of Deduction. That’s what the papers said, anyway.”

“You mean after they came just short of apologizing for being completely wrong and printing absolute rubbish about him?” John’s comment was angry.

Mary studied him. After all the shit she’d heard about Sherlock, all the frustration he’d caused her boyfriend, it was clear that John was absolutely devoted, and loyal, to his best friend. And she knew that Sherlock felt the same way about him. But the complexities of their relationship left Mary shaking her head. It was something she didn’t understand… and a relationship she would never try to get in the middle of. She was too far gone on John and she didn’t want to screw it up. Mary caressed his chest, smiling as she watched her fingers give him goose pimples all over. “So will I ever meet him?”

“At your own risk.” Mary smirked but sighed when the phone rang again. John rolled his eyes but put a finger to his lips for her to keep quiet. “What is it Sherlock?”

PAUSE. “So you finally had sex with the lovely Miss Morstan.”

“Wait! I thought you told me to start dating her and avoid the Tesco!”

“You really thought I didn’t know about your relationship? Should I be hurt that you have so little faith in me or flattered I can still fool you?”

“What do you want?”

“Oh and the afterglow hasn’t worn off yet. I’m really good at this.” 

“Congratulate yourself later. Tell me what you want.” John’s teeth were clenched and Mary held back a snort of laughter.

“Eric Livingston was found dead in Zurich. He was set afire and a feather was found taped to the outside of the room. I don’t believe it is him but I want to investigate. And I need you.”

“Why don’t you think it’s Livingston?”

“Because the cause of death doesn’t match any of Falcon’s known killings.”

“Ok, so why do you need me then?” 

“Because I need an assistant. And you aren’t asinine.”

“Oh Sherlock, you never fail to make me feel better.” John smirked and sat up, running his hand through his hair. Mary sat up beside him, wrapping the sheet around her. “Fine. But I’m sure we won’t be leaving until tomorrow. Are there any flights to Switzerland this late at night?”

“Mycroft is taking us.”

“Does he know this?”

John could hear Sherlock grinning. “Not yet.”

John rolled his eyes. The petty childishness between the two brothers, while fun to watch at times, was almost self-destructive. “So… what? Are we going to descend on his house or something, wake him out of bed?”

“Mycroft owes me information.”

John leaned down and picked up his pants. “Where do I meet you?”

“Baker Street. Molly and Lestrade are coming as well.”

“What? Why?”

“Enough chit chat.” CLICK. Sighing, John closed his eyes and tapped his head with the phone, as if to knock some sense into himself. He opened his eyes and looked at Mary who was watching him intently. 

“You have to leave don’t you?” John nodded. 

“I am so sorry Mary. I promise I…”

Mary shook her head and took his face into her hands. “I know you’re sorry but don’t make promises. Your best friend is a self-possessed egomaniacal prick…”

“Wow. You’re just as good at deduction as he is!”

She chuckled. “…but he’s a huge part of your life and I would never, ever dream of coming in the middle of you two. I will support you however I can, and know I’ll be here for you, but you do need to find a balance, if only for the sake of your own sanity. You are too good to Sherlock but you deserve your own life.” Mary smiled when he sighed and leaned down to rest his forehead against hers. 

“Mary, I think you are better than Sherlock and I combined.”

“You’re just now realizing it? Perhaps you need to get Sherlock to teach you some deduction skills…”

“Oh you…” Mary laughed as she ducked his attempt to hit her with a pillow.

…..

As Sherlock, Lestrade and Molly arrived at Baker Street, they opened the door of the taxi, without getting out, and found John waiting on the curb. Sherlock smirked as he scanned his friend. “Oh yeah. It would seem your lady friend has a very talented mouth.”

John reddened but stared Sherlock in the eye. “Are we going now?” 

“Yes. Get in.” 

John slammed the door behind him as he settled beside Sherlock. He took in the scene around him then looked at Sherlock. “And you’re welcome.”

Sherlock looked confused. “For what?”

“I have your passport.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked out the window. But John wasn’t done. “You know, it’s a bit heartless to force the friend of the victim to identify the body, especially if she doesn’t want to.” He looked at the woman in question. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes. I want to help. I can’t sit on the sidelines, powerless. Besides, they can’t leave me without protection.”

“I don’t exactly agree with this arrangement; I do have a whole police force at my disposal. They can look after her,” Lestrade sent a worried look at Molly. She tried to reassure him but it wasn’t working. John looked at Sherlock who was watching Molly the entire time. And John knew it. Sherlock didn’t want to let her out of his sight. He’s bringing her along so he could take care of her! Well, this was a development he wasn’t quite prepared for. For once listening to his intuition in matters of Sherlock, John wisely kept his mouth shut. Embarrassing Sherlock in front of Molly was not the way to handle the situation.

“Greg, think of this as an adventure. I’ve never been to Zurich. I only have one request.”

“What’s that?”

Molly grinned. “I want some Swiss chocolate.” Sherlock rolled his eyes again but John noticed the tiny smirk in the corner of his mouth.

…..

“It’s done Camel.” Falcon said as Camel picked him up from Heathrow. 

“Livingston’s dead?”

“Yes. Any further developments?”

“It looks like Holmes, Watson, Lestrade…”

“Who is Lestrade?”

“The investigator in charge of the case.”

“Hmmm…”

“…and the Hooper woman are all flying to Zurich.”

“Why Hooper?”

Camel shrugged as he swerved into the horrendous traffic leading out of Heathrow. “My guess would be to identify the body. She was close friends with both of them.”

“Yes I know.” Falcon gave Camel a tiny smirk but turned back to look at the road ahead of them. “I set him on fire Camel.”

Camel’s eyebrow rose. “Tell me again why you had to be the one to kill him? You never pull any triggers.”

“To make sure the job was done right. Good help is so hard to find.” 

“That is not your usual MO. Why would you want to draw more attention to it?”

“I realize that but it will distract them from what we need to do next.”

“Which is…?”

“Patience my friend. Patience.” Falcon paused. “I don’t have all the pieces together yet. But when they are I will tell you what is next. Camel, it will be a glorious thing.”

When they reached a traffic signal Camel turned to the man in the car with him. “Do you ever wonder…?”

Falcon’s eyebrow rose as he looked at the man. “Wonder what??”

Camel opened his mouth then closed it. “Nothing boss. I was simply woolgathering.” When the light changed he pulled into traffic once again. “When do we go back to Kansas City?”

“You don’t like the United Kingdom?”

“It’s not that but…” Camel sighed. He might as well tell Falcon what’s bothering him; he always, somehow, manages to find out. “…I think Janey’s pregnant.”

Falcon’s eyebrow rose. “Who?”

“Tommy’s little sister Janey.”

“Ohhh…” Falcon nodded. “The hot little blonde I’ve seen you with?” Camel nodded. “I didn’t know you were dating her.”

“Not really dating. More like…”

“Fuck buddies?”

Camel winced. For as tough of a guy that Camel was (and given his kill record the man had no qualms about taking somebody out), he was astonishingly sensitive about decorum when it came to discussing his love life. Even if the person in question was simply a fuck buddy. “Yes. Ever since Emmie’s death I…”

Falcon nodded. “I know my friend. You don’t have to say it. I’m just glad the bastards that killed her got what they deserved.”

Camel nodded then sighed. “Yes. Revenge is sweet. Um, Janey’s going to the doctor today.”

Falcon paused. And, like Camel, Falcon had a soft side that only certain people saw. Sure, when in public the man had perfect manners and would absolutely help little old ladies across the street or even the occasional cat stuck in a tree, but it was compartmentalized and could quickly and easily be shut off, along with the feelings that went with it. It’s what made Falcon the perfect criminal mind. And deadly. Falcon could easily see that Camel hadn’t come to terms with his wife’s death. “How do you feel about it?”

“I don’t know. Emmie and I wanted kids and I do want kids but…”

“…not with Janey?” Camel shook his head. “Well, my friend, don’t stay with her if you don’t want to but take responsibility for your dick. If the kid is yours you have to support it.”

“I know. I won’t marry her for the sake of the kid. I know that she doesn’t want to get married and it’s not fair to the kid to force us to get married but I will support the child. And I will be there for it.”

Falcon smiled and slapped the man on the back. “And I’ll do whatever I can to make sure you are there for them both. You are my best friend and best friends take care of each other, right?”  
…..

When the group got to Mycroft’s home they got out of the taxi and stood in front of the closed gate while Sherlock rung his brother. “What do you want?” Mycroft’s greeting was rather abrupt, for him.

“My dear older brother, you seem rather snippy this evening.”

“I will repeat: What do you want?”

“We need the jet.”

“Who’s ‘we’? Manchester United? The Spice Girls? One Direction? The Scooby Gang?”

“Why Mycroft, I had no idea you were so hip to the younger generation. What’s next? Are you going to tell me that you like bacon tetris?”

“What?”

“You are so 2001.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. _“Bacon tetris?”_ John mouthed to the others who simply shrugged in confusion. “Fine. If you must know, John, Molly, Lestrade and myself need to fly to Zurich because…”

“Since when do you need to go to the Livingston crime scene?”

Sherlock’s eyebrow rose. He knew that the ‘minor’ position that Mycroft held wasn’t quite so minor but that was FAST. “Did they call you before Lestrade?”

“Just about. And why would Molly being going?”

“Because she’s the closest person to the victim. We need her for a positive identification.”

“And it couldn’t have waited until the body was back in the UK?”

“If the victim was Swiss it wouldn’t be going back to London…”

“…and if the victim was Swiss there would be no need for Molly’s identification.” Mycroft paused. “…or…” Sherlock could hear him grinning. “I know she moved in with Lestrade so he can keep an eye on her.” Sherlock rolled his eyes at the glee in his older brother’s voice. “But you wanted to keep an eye on her, didn’t you? You don’t trust the police to do their jobs?”

“You owe me some information Mycroft. It’s been a whole day since I gave you the request. It’s not like you to wait so long.”

“I was waiting for you to come to me but, then, you’ve been distracted because another dog has your bone.” Sherlock was inexplicably mad that Mycroft compared Molly to a bone. Since he didn’t want to talk about it in front of the others, Sherlock avoided answering.

“Mycroft we are standing outside your gate. Are you going to let us in or not? It’s bloody cold out here.”

“I know where you are and I know how cold it is. I’m warm and you aren’t; why would I make you any more comfortable?”

“This is unbelievable…” Sherlock clenched his teeth.

“I’ll let you in under one condition…”

“And what would that be?”

“You bring me the letter you got from Abigail Turner.”

Sherlock decided to play dumb. “Who?” He could almost hear Mycroft’s eyes rolling.

“Stop playing dumb Sherlock. You’re too smart for that. The letter she got in the mail. I know you’re carrying it. I want to see it.”

“Why?”

“Do you know who she is?”

“She’s a friend of Molly’s. She’s a fashion designer but seems to know something about law enforcement.” Sherlock looked at Molly who was throwing him a confused look.

“And you haven’t worked out yet who she really is?”

“No.”

Mycroft sighed. “You better work out your personal problems, Sherlock. You’re slipping.” BUZZ! The iron gates opened. “You are going to want to hear this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N: I found ‘bacon tetris’ on Urban Dictionary. Here’s the definition from UD…**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **“The act of arranging bacon strips on a frying pan in the most efficient way possible given the dimensions of your pan. The goal is to maximize the number of bacon strips on the heating surface without leaving any part of any strip uncooked.”**
> 
>  
> 
> **For some reason it just seemed to fit for that scene. **smirk****
> 
>  
> 
> **Thanks again for reading! I do appreciate it!**


	14. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don’t get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing!
> 
> This story is un-betaed.

**Chapter 13**

_“And you haven’t worked out yet who she really is?”_

_“No.”_

_Mycroft sighed. “You better work out your personal problems, Sherlock. You’re slipping.” BUZZ! The iron gates opened. “You are going to want to hear this.”_

 

Abigail Turner leaned against the door of her flat with a sigh and threw her keys on the foyer table. She was very happy her “husband” had the late shift these past few months. At least, that was what she was telling people.

In reality, Thomas Winthrop, devoted husband of Abigail Turner, fellow morgue attendee and work colleague of Molly Hooper, was really an undercover CIA agent, working to infiltrate an international organ harvesting scam seemingly working out of St. Bart’s. That was the extent of the knowledge Abigail had about ‘Thomas Winthrop’s’ work. In fact she didn’t even know his real name. They used each other for cover and they were roommates. What she did know was enough for her to realize that Thomas’ real husband wouldn’t have been too keen on him doing anything else with Abigail. If he’d known anything about Thomas’ real identity.

Juggling lies could be so hard sometimes.

Changing personas to keep her true profession hidden could be very tiring, and it was something she noticed was becoming more difficult the deeper the cover became. It was hard enough to keep her work secret from her ‘husband’ but, then, Thomas had his own share of problems keeping his sexual orientation a secret from the CIA. Thomas had no idea what the CIA would’ve done had they known but he wasn’t about to take any chances. And he didn’t want to lose Kyle so, in his mind it was easier to keep lying to the man. How long he could keep that up, she didn’t know and she didn’t want to see the fall out.

With a sigh Abigail took her Chinese takeaway to the kitchen, grabbed a wine glass, a bottle of her favorite red, the food and some utensils, and kicked off her shoes as she stumbled to the sofa. Just as she was opening the takeaway box her private mobile phone rang. Without looking at the caller ID since only one group of people knew that number, she answered, “Turner.”

“Good evening Mrs. Turner. Or, should I say Miss Rachel Brooks.” The voice was smooth and too serious to take lightly.

“Who?”

“That is your real name isn’t it? Rachel Brooks?”

Abigail was suddenly very nervous. “Who is this again?”

CHUCKLE THEN PAUSE. “Did you get my letter?”

“How did you get this number?”

“If you knew everything that I was capable of, the fact that I know this is your official, secure and private Marshal cell phone would be the least of your worries. After all, I know your real name.”

Abigail suddenly wished she had something stronger than wine. Schooling her breathing with her yoga method, she was happily surprised her voice remained calm. “Alright, so you sent the letter.”

“Very good. And I know you gave it to Mr. Holmes. Did you keep a copy?”

“Of course I did. I am a government agent; I know how this works.”

“Yes you are Marshal Brooks, I mean Turner. A United States government agent with a British accent. You were born in Kentucky, correct?” Abigail didn’t answer so the man continued. “But your British father and American mother moved you to London when you were three weeks old.”

“Well, I’m impressed. You seem to know an awful lot about me but I’m at the disadvantage. I know nothing about you.”

“Yes, funny how that works. But what I don’t know, or understand, is why you would go back to the States to become a Marshal.”

“As your American children would say, that’s for me to know and for you to find out.”

SNORT. “You were with the Marshal’s service several years before you were transferred to the international sector. Not much of a leap really. You’d become Samantha Clifton’s, aka Satin N. Lace, handler and you moved Eric and Michelle, as she was being called by that time, to London. You were instrumental in the Livingston’s move to London though Eric never knew who you really were. In fact, Michelle herself never really knew who you were, did she?”

“What do you mean? Of course she did.”

The man avoided the question. “I do know you were never happy about her marriage to Eric Livingston. Why is that?”

“Does it matter? Michelle’s dead.”

“Oh, didn’t you hear? Eric’s dead too.” Abigail groaned and nearly spilt her drink. “Yeah, poor guy. Poor stupid, passive Eric. The police know he died in his hotel room in Zurich. The police are good but certainly not the best. They don’t know everything.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Once again the man avoided the question. “Stop asking questions. Like I’m going to tell you, at least not right now. Don’t fuck with me Mrs. Turner. This has to go my way. Do you understand?” Abigail simply grunted an affirmation. “Good girl. By the way does your husband…” She could hear the sarcasm in his voice. “…know what you really do?”

“Of course not.”

“But, then, you don’t know what he really does either but hey? Gay men make great roommates, don’t they? When he is home he makes a hell of a Yorkshire pudding and keeps the flat all spic and span.” Abigail hesitated before reacting to the man’s speech. How much should she refute? If she said too much she would be giving too much away. If she said too little… “Oh Abigail. Don’t think too hard about what you can and can’t tell me. I know all about your arrangement. Thomas is a CIA operative, posing as your husband when he really just wants to be at his other house, fucking his British husband, Kyle. Too bad Thomas...” PAUSE. “Do you even know Thomas’ real name?” Abigail didn’t answer. “I’ll take the silence as a no. Then I won’t be the one to tell you. It’s really a shame that Thomas is away on ‘business trips’ so much. If he weren’t then Kyle wouldn’t be fucking the 20-year-old neighbor boy.” The man sighed. “It’s so hard to maintain household felicity, isn’t it?”

“That a big word for such a bad guy.” For the first time in her professional career Abigail was growing genuinely scared. She knew she was dealing with a very dangerous individual. 

“Tsk, tsk my good Marshal. I must say, you have quite the sweet professional setup here.” He paused then chuckled. It was a low, evil chuckle that sent chills down the somewhat hardened agent’s spine. “You wouldn’t want anything to happen to it, would you?”

“What do you want?”

“Did you give the letter to your bosses?

“No.”

“Liar.”

“No, it’s true. My boss knows about it but I haven’t sent him a copy.” 

“Why?”

“Honestly? I’ve been too damned busy. Besides…”

“No…” The man’s voice was so low it purred. “…you didn’t send it because you are afraid. Somebody got to your witness and you don’t trust anybody.”

“No I don’t. And I certainly don’t trust you.”

“Smart and sexy.” Abigail detected the note of admiration in his voice. It sent yet another shiver down her spine. “That’s good, real good. Have you tried to decipher it?”

“No.”

“Don’t you want to know what it says before Holmes figures it out? He’s a genius.”

“Yes I would like to know before Holmes…”

“Then I will give you a few clues.”

Abigail didn’t believe the man for one millisecond. “And why should I believe you?”

“You shouldn’t but you’re dying to know. And it’s not like somebody’s going to get killed if I give you the wrong way to solve the puzzle.” She could hear him smirking over the phone. “Not this time anyway.”

“Stop it! It’s not a game…”

“Like hell it isn’t! It’s a game I’m willing to play, at the risk of my own life. Do you know what will happen to me should anybody close to Falcon find out what I have been doing? Camel would rip my heart out and make me eat it.”

Abigail’s eyebrow rose at this. “Camel? Who is Camel?”

The man paused then chuckled. “Oh that’s right. You don’t know anything about Falcon’s network. I’ll give you this much. You’ll get more later, if you’ve been a good girl.” Abigail rolled her eyes. “Camel is Falcon’s right hand man. You have to go through Camel to get to Falcon. They are as close as brothers, perhaps even closer. Only the two of them really knows what goes on in their network.”

Abigail waited for more but when no more came she asked, “And? Is that all?”

“For now. I’m sure that’s more than you had in all the years you pursued him, am I correct?”

“How did you know that? How do you know any of this?” When he didn’t answer, Abigail prodded in another way. “You work for Falcon don’t you?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Oh come on! You gave me part of the hierarchy structure.”

“Doesn’t mean I work for Falcon.”

“You’re forgetting the feather with the letter. You’re clearly an American, with the lack of accent, use of American jargon and…”

The man chuckled. “You’re right. I do know Falcon, as much as somebody who isn’t Camel can know him. I do work for him but I know more about him then he thinks I know. I’m so insignificant to him that I’m the last person he would suspect of ratting him out. He’s worked so hard to be invisible but even ghosts aren’t invisible. He has made a lot of mistakes. I have discovered them. And he will pay for them.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?”

“Because, Mrs. Turner, Falcon is planning something that could threaten not only you and the people in WitSec but everybody in the United States, perhaps even across the world.”

“That’s a bit melodramatic, don’t you think?”

“Tell that to Michelle and Eric Livingston.” He paused. “I won’t tell you any more than that.” For the first time since they began talking the man sounded something other than completely in control. Scared perhaps? “Something bad will happen to me if he discovers we talked.” It was her turn not to say anything so the man asked, “And if that happened, would you care?”

Confused he would ask such a question she decided to answer honestly. “I’m not sure if I would care or not. I have a feeling you haven’t earned the right of any good person’s worry.”

She could hear the man smirking over the phone. “Damn it I bet you’re a good fuck. So feisty. Tell me: are you a natural redhead?”

“Like you’ll ever find out.” Why was she arguing with this guy? Was it because of the gravity of the situation he put everybody in? Or was it her pride? “Look Mr… what should I call you?”

“Al. Call me Al.”

“Al…” It was a name she found utterly ridiculous. “…if this could be so bad for you, why are you doing it?”

“One thing at a time. Work on the letter then I’ll tell you more. Here are a few clues to the cipher. 22 lines. Groups of 9. Z before A.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’ll be in touch.” CLICK then a dial tone.

With a sigh Abigail threw the mobile phone on the sofa and leaned back. Her analytical mind, programmed to take pieces of a case and fit them together like a jigsaw, began whirring, trying to place information where she thought it should go. She knew that…

1\. The caller was close enough to Falcon that he was privy to information about Falcon and what he was doing but, given that she didn’t know the true managerial structure of the organization she couldn’t begin to know what this man’s position was.

2\. Who is this Camel?

3\. This Falcon had wronged the caller somehow. Given how easily the man flaunted his criminal prowess, Abigail doubted it was his conscience that made him communicate with her. She just didn’t know what it was.

4\. The man did have a motive but she knew it wasn’t as simple, or as superficial, as a mere game. This could lead to #3.

5\. It was obvious he wanted somebody to decipher his cipher. She had a feeling he wanted her to do it, given that he contacted her.

6\. The caller certainly had a lot of information about everything and everyone, including herself. How did he get all of that information? 

Taking her now cold takeaway to the micro, she set that to reheat as she went to her desk blotter. Pulling it up she retrieved the copy and took it to the coffee table, grabbing a pen. After settling herself with her food, she began reading, making notes as she went. Along the side of the poem she numbered the lines 1 through 22 then drew a line under every 9th line. Looking at the cipher notations she realized she wasn’t going to sift through the jumbles; Abigail needed the notations in list form. Copying each cipher in a column, in an order she thought made sense, Abigail was able to work through the information. Quickly the pattern she needed emerged.

An hour later, when she was done and she read the outcome, Abigail really did spill her wine. Grabbing her phone she dialed her boss. Given the time difference she knew he would be available.

“Atkins.”

“Charlie, this is Turner.”

“Have any more information about the letter?”

“Yes, sir, and you aren’t going to like it. We’re all in serious trouble.”


	15. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don’t get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing!
> 
> This story is un-betaed.

**Chapter 14**

_An hour later, when she was done and she read the outcome, Abigail really did spill her wine. Grabbing her phone she dialed her boss. Given the time difference she knew he would be available._

_“Atkins.”_

_“Charlie, this is Turner.”_

_“Have any more information about the letter?”_

_“Yes, sir, and you aren’t going to like it. We’re all in serious trouble.”_

 

“Abigail Turner’s a federal agent?!” John asked.

Sherlock sighed and mentally slapped himself. He should’ve known that from the very beginning. It was right there. Granted the woman was very good at incognito but still… 

And Sherlock knew what this meant…

“She’s Michelle Livingston’s handler.” Mycroft said. “She has been from the very beginning.”

“That means that whoever sent the letter knew Michelle was in WitSec.” Sherlock said, pacing. They were standing in the great hall of Mycroft’s palatial townhouse. 

“Precisely.”

“And if the letter writer, who knows that Michelle was in WitSec, works for Falcon…”

“What else can he know?” Molly finished the thought. To say that Molly was surprised would’ve been an understatement. The astonishment was acute. Molly felt betrayed and she didn’t like that feeling. 

“That’s the problem Miss Hooper…”

“That’s Doctor Hooper.” Sherlock squawked at his brother, making both John and Lestrade’s eyebrows raise. Molly was too deep in her thoughts to call him out on it. “In the twenty-first century, if you wanted to communicate with somebody, what is the least likely method you would use?”

“Who am I?” John asked and elaborated with Sherlock’s quizzical look. “Am I an ordinary citizen?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Fine.” John looked at the ceiling. “Let’s see… smoke signals?”

“Homing pigeon?” Molly.

“Sky writer?” Mycroft.

“Mail?” Lestrade.

“Exactly.” Sherlock pointed to Lestrade, who seemed to be the first to put the pieces together. “Remember who we are talking about. The letter writer works for a ghost syndicate. They don’t want to be traced. They don’t want to be known. Emails, texts and phone calls can be traced. I would imagine they deal in cash; cheques and credit cards put them on the grid. If they have to be on the grid it would be legitimately and completely above board. The organization would take great pains to avoid making waves. With the scant amount of information we have there is no way we’ll know who they are or how they communicate. So, until we know more there’s nothing we can do.” 

“How long will it take to get the plane ready?” John asked.

“Half an hour. Since Sherlock’s a pilot…”

“You are?” Molly was, once again, surprised. In the back of her mind she realized she shouldn’t have been surprised. 

“Yes. I’m also a licensed hypnotherapist and I can juggle five pugs while twirling a flaming baton…” 

“Instead of being an asshole about it you could’ve just said yes and let it be.” Molly said, turning her back, clearly disappointed at Sherlock being, well, Sherlock. John’s eyebrow rose as he looked at Sherlock who was staring at Molly.

“Well…” Mycroft cleared his throat and pulled out his Blackberry. “…I’ll call the airfield to get the plane ready. My suggestion would be to work on that letter.”

“Yes Father,” Sherlock rolled his eyes but took the letter into the den. He sat at a large mahogany desk and pulled a pad of paper from the middle drawer.

“How do you know your way around my desk?”

“Anybody who has a working knowledge of you, Mycroft, can navigate their way around your desk. It’s shameful how transparent you really are.” Taking a fountain pen, Sherlock began studying the ciphers written to the side of the verses. Molly, looking over his shoulder, said, “I would put those in order first. It’s the easiest way to begin.” Biting his tongue he began copying the figures in a column. Everybody looked over the figures for a moment. 

“What do you think the underscore between the ‘1’ and the ‘5’ here in this figure means?” Molly asked, her finger lightly caressing Sherlock’s handwriting. For some odd reason (call it a freak moment of weakness), Sherlock could feel the texture of her finger against his most sensitive areas. Sudden thoughts of their times together invaded him, holding his cold, analytical side hostage. He closed his eyes and felt her soft lips against his pelvis; her fingernails biting into his shoulder blades as he moved within her; her walls, urgent, hot and strong, encouraging him to take what he wanted.

Sherlock got a strange feeling he needed to eat all the words he used about how illogical the physiological reaction to sexual stimuli made people complete idiots. Squeezing his eyes tightly he coughed and returned to what he was doing. 

“Does that mean from 1 to 5 perhaps?” John asked his eyes narrowing as he concentrated.

“Look…” Sherlock quickly engaged his logical brain and began grouping the notations by the first number. “…the ciphers range from 1 to 9. There is one cipher per line. So we know there are 22 lines. And since the ciphers obviously don’t correspond with the line they are noted on, they are out of order for a purpose. Probably to add a few more moments of confusion to the deciphering process. Easy enough to put back in order.” Sherlock then grouped the ciphers by their first numbers: 1-9; 1-4a and 1-9z.

“But why only 4 lines for a but 9 for z?”

“Another attempt to confuse perhaps?” John asked. 

“Yes but which group of numbers belongs where?” Molly asked.

“The only way to determine that is to try different combinations…” Lestrade said. 

“We don’t have time for that right now,” Sherlock said. 

“Ok, but we have to know what the other numbers mean.”

“That’s easy…” Sherlock pointed to the second and third numbers in one of the ciphers. “…one of them is a corresponding word and the other is a letter in the word.”

“How do you know this?”

“It’s not that hard. This isn’t the German Enigma code. I don’t think the point was to make it as obscure as possible. I think the point was to delay us for a time.”

“Why?”

Sherlock huffed. “Why do you always think I have the answer?”

Molly shrugged. “Because you always have the answer. It’s not rocket science.”

“Alright, fine Miss Marple. While we are on the plane you figure it out. I’m going to take a nap.” Sherlock said as he stalked toward the door.

“You’re our pilot dumbass,” John chastised.

“Dumbass?”

“Children, please…” Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes. It was going to be a very, very long night…

…..

Atkins was very quiet after Abigail explained what she had discovered.

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“Positive. I’m not a cryptanalyst but I was able to decipher the code. I tried several different combinations and this was the only thing that came back that made sense. Everything else was just gibberish.”

“So what are you going to do with this information? I mean, how do we even know that the name revealed in this cipher is correct? Who is Donovan anyway?”

“I don’t know yet sir. Give me some time to figure that out.”

“Fine. Give this information to Mr. Holmes. He’s a powerful ally. He does have that kooky brother of his, Mycroft.”

“Kooky? How is Mycroft Holmes kooky?”

“Ok, not kooky per se but very eccentric. An extremely well-connected eccentric. Do what you can to make nice with the Holmes boys. They could prove very helpful in the future.”

Abigail sighed. She didn’t go into this business to play politics. Unfortunately she played politics more often than she actually did her job. It could be quite discouraging. “Fine.”

“See what else you can find out.”

“Will do. I’ll keep you informed.” When they got off the phone she sighed and rubbed her eyes. Abigail, remembering the possibility of a leak in the Marshal’s office, lied to her boss and gave him completely false information. She knew the leak was the only explanation for Michelle’s assassination. While she made a living lying, she didn’t like lying to her boss. The only person she could truly trust with the truth was Sherlock Holmes.

Grabbing her phone once again she dialed a number she received from her research.

…..

“Who is this?” Sherlock’s gruff voice startled the rest of the cabin. They were halfway to Zurich and, Sherlock had to admit, he was a bit cranky. He was not prepared to speak to some random person on the mobile. However, he couldn’t seem to resist a call from a blocked number. The suspense was rather interesting but exciting.

PAUSE. “Abigail Turner.”

“Ah! US Marshal Abigail Turner. To what pleasure do I owe this phone call?” His tone was so syrupy Molly’s teeth began to ache.

PAUSE. “Ever so nice to hear your voice Mr. Holmes. Tell me, how are you this fine night?”

“I would be even better if you were right beside me, whispering sweet nothings in my ear.”

“I am on the phone; I can do that right now. They would be low and sweet and I could make you wish I was doing more than just talking.”

Sherlock laughed and John pulled his arm. “Would you cut it out?? What’s going on?” Sherlock waved him off and said into the phone, “I’m sure you could. I’m sure I could teach you a few things as well my sweetness.”

“I doubt that. What could a virgin teach me?”

Sherlock growled and asked, “Why are you calling?”

“Hey, you started it.”

“No I didn’t. You did.”

“I did not! You did.” 

“Yes you did. You called me.” 

Molly was watching his side of the exchange in horror. She didn’t know if she was horrified because he seemed to be flirting with this Mrs. Turner or horrified that he was supposed to be solving a major case and he sounded like a four year old rowing with his older sibling. “For the love of God, Sherlock, shut up and find out what she wants!!” Sherlock stared at her, continuously surprised at her growing set of, well, balls. It made his tingle with awareness. _Oh God, I’ve got no choice. I’m going to have to have sex with her again. If it’s the only way to alleviate this problem…_

“Have you figured out the cipher yet Sherlock?” 

While Abigail’s words didn’t, necessarily, break through his sexual haze, it did go a long way to calm him. “I’m a bit busy at the moment.”

“Doing what? Jerking off?”

Yep. He was no longer aroused. Mrs. Turner worked wonders for dousing sexual flames. Like a bucket of cold water only without the mess. “That’s classy. If you must know I’m flying us to Zurich.”

“On your broom?”

“Modern girls use Hoovers now thank you very much.”

“Well, it looks like I bested the great Sherlock Holmes. I have figured it out.”

“Oh really? Well, isn’t that nice. What do you want a medal?”

“I wouldn’t mind punching you in the nose.”

“Touchy.”

PAUSE. “I lied to my boss.”

This gave Sherlock pause. “Why?”

“I find myself, rather reluctantly, trusting only you Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I think I should have my head examined but…”

“Probably but, then, there are very few people I’ve met that don’t need their heads examined.”

“Well, I’m on my way to Zurich.”

“Wait! You can’t come to Zurich!”

“Why not?”

“Well…” But Sherlock didn’t finish his sentence as he had the phone ripped from his hand by Lestrade.

“Excuse me, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade with New Scotland Yard.”

“DI Lestrade! This is Abigail Turner.”

“Yes, the US Marshal.”

“Please, DI Lestrade, don’t say that too loudly. I’m in deep cover…”

“Mycroft Holmes briefed us all on who you are.”

“Fantastic.” The sarcasm was palpable.

“Listen, Agent Turner, to the outside world you are Abigail Winthrop, fashion designer. If anybody got wind that you were at a crime scene, at a hotel in Zurich, your cover will certainly be blown. Nobody can afford that.”

“But that’s my jurisdiction! I have the daughter in protection and, as Michelle’s husband, he was under my protection as well.”

“Not very well, given that he is dead.”

PAUSE. “I have every right to be there…”

“No you don’t. As a British citizen connected to a British homicide in MY city, it’s MY jurisdiction! If you think…” 

“But they were BOTH original American citizens! They have dual citizenships. Come on! Can’t we work…”

Mycroft took the phone from Lestrade. “Miss Turner…” 

“That’s MISSUS! And who are you?”

“Mycroft Holmes. From what I understand he’s not your husband. He’s another man’s husband.”

GASP.

“Neither of our governments could afford it if you were discovered. Stay home.”

“Or what?”

“For the love of all that is good, I live among primary children…” Mycroft could hear the smile over the phone. For some reason this endeared her a bit to him. “…your boss, Charles Atkins, gave me authority over you. Do you want to find out?”

PAUSE. “Fine.”

“We’ll contact you when we return to London. Cheerio.” Mycroft hung up and handed the phone back to Sherlock. “For God’s sake, Sherlock, straighten up your women. This is getting ridiculous.”


	16. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Just wanted to let you know there are about 5 or so chapters left of this story. Thank you, all my readers. It is a thrill to know you are reading my story!!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters are not mine. The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don’t get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing! 
> 
> This story is un-betaed.

**Chapter 15**

_“For the love of all that is good, I live among primary children…” Mycroft could hear the smile over the phone. For some reason this endeared her a bit to him. “…your boss, Charles Atkins, gave me authority over you. Do you want to find out?”_

_PAUSE. “Fine.”_

_“We’ll contact you when we return to London. Cheerio.” Mycroft hung up and handed the phone back to Sherlock. “For God’s sake, Sherlock, straighten up your women. This is getting ridiculous.”_

 

Sitting alone in a darkened hotel room, clutching a photo that rarely saw the light of day, a man silently weeps. The photo of the beautiful woman never left his wallet. He couldn’t afford others to see his one true weakness. The photo, faded and ragged from the many times he handled it, showed a woman in the prime of her life, her love shining in her eyes, her life full of promise.

It was a promised life that was cut short much too quickly.

The truth of her death hadn’t been revealed right away. As the widower grieved he searched high and low for the reason, and those responsible, for her death. And at first there had been no reason. She was beloved by those around her, respected by her peers and appreciated by her coworkers. 

It took two years but when the truth was finally revealed, it had been as shocking as her physical death had been. It left him feeling responsible, keeping him up late at night, blaming himself time and again. The truth was revealed in some rather bizarre, roundabout ways. When he learned why she was a potential victim to begin with, the man didn’t believe he couldn’t have stopped it if he had known and tried. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t have at least attempted it. But he wasn’t sure he would have prevented it anyway because, well, he wouldn’t have believed it could have happened. 

The physical evidence of her dead body forced him to believe that someone he never thought could betray him did. And it convinced the man her death by his hand was possible. That it could have, and did, happen.

Very soon after learning the truth the wheels of revenge were set in motion. His revenge would be complete. The man smiled as he, once again, went through the plan in his head. He was as good of a liar as the one who betrayed him. Better even, for the revenge had been methodical in its engineering and composition. He was patient. He had always been blessed with an abnormal amount of patience. And it served him well in the work he was in.

No man kills the wife of his twin brother without facing the direst of consequences.  
…..

Molly continued working on the cipher until they arrived in Zurich. Just as they landed Molly gasped. “No… that can’t be…”

“What?” 

She looked at John who had made the inquiry. “It can’t be. All this time…”

“Did you figure it out Molly?”

“Yes. You aren’t going to believe this…”

“Molly, my dear…” Mycroft’s eyebrow rose as Sherlock’s use of the endearment. He was positive he’d never heard his brother utter that word before, at least in reference to another person, much less a woman. “…nothing shocks me. I’ve seen it all. What is it?”

“You have to read this…” She handed the deciphered letter to John whose eyes widened.

“Exactly how did you come about this?” John asked as he handed the letter to Lestrade.

“I tried every combination. This was the only combination that made sense. The first group of nine poetry lines was 1-9; the next group was the 1-9 z and the last was the 1-4 a. It was just enough to throw somebody off temporarily…”

“But perhaps that was the point?” Mycroft suggested, his forehead crinkled with confusion. “But how could anybody not realize this?”

By then the engines had been turned off and Sherlock was completing his landing procedures. They didn’t say anything until Sherlock finished. Standing up he stood in front of Molly as she handed him the paper. When he read the answer he was speechless for a moment. The only other time Molly had seen him speechless was the night they took their relationship into the bedroom. He’d been speechless when she used her mouth on him. Shamelessly (only because she’d sworn off him completely), it brought a smile on her face…

Molly grinned. “I can see this surprised you.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. To his credit he was forthright about how wrong his earlier statement had been. “Yes but are you sure?”

Molly nodded. “But it would make sense. It’s the only way they could know where she was in order to pull off the hit.”

Sherlock, nodding, pulled out his phone. He dialed then hit the speaker button. When the person answered, Sherlock bellowed, “Marshal Turner.”

“Why, Mr. Holmes. To what do I owe the pleasure of this conversation?”

“Give me a bit more sarcasm Sugar. You aren’t syrupy enough…”

“Now, now, Mr. Holmes, there’s no need to be like that. Aren’t we on the same side?”

“We figured out the letter.”

“Isn’t that nice? How long did it take you?”

Sherlock ignored her. “So is this message the reason you wanted to go to Zurich?”

“Mostly but Eric Livingston was under my protection.”

“Which makes this letter that much more ironic.”

“Yeah, the irony is fantastic, isn’t it?” Her tone was sarcastic yet tired at the same time. “The real problem is: is that really Eric Livingston, dead in Zurich?”

“Mycroft…” Lestrade turned to the older Holmes. “…I think she needs to be in Zurich. Don’t you?”

“In light of this letter…” Mycroft slowly admitted he was wrong. “…yes. She could also help to identify him.”

Sherlock decided to cut to the rub. This woman annoyed him; he needed her to know that she truly wasn’t in charge. Besides, he needed to throw around his mental prowess. He hadn’t been able to lately and it was killing him. “Marshal Turner, what is your boss going to say when he learns that the husband of your witness was the man you were hired to keep her hidden from? I’m sure that discovering that Eric Livingston is, or maybe was, the notorious Falcon puts the jewel right in your professional crown now doesn’t it?”


	17. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

_Sherlock decided to cut to the rub. This woman annoyed him; he needed her to know that she truly wasn’t in charge. Besides, he needed to throw around his mental prowess. He hadn’t been able to lately and it was killing him. “Marshal Turner, what is your boss going to say when he learns that the husband of your witness was the man you were hired to keep her hidden from? I’m sure that discovering that Eric Livingston is, or maybe was, the notorious Falcon puts the jewel right in your professional crown now doesn’t it?”_

 

“Any theories oh great and powerful Detective?” The lady Marshal snapped back.

“It’s quite simple really; I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.” He looked at Mycroft but spoke into the phone. “The strip club. Mycroft, were you able to track its owner?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No we weren’t. In all the years I have held my minor position in the British government…” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “…we’ve never seen somebody cover their tracks so well. The trail ended at a name and American Social Security number of a man who has been dead for 25 years. Let’s assume, for the moment, that it really was owned by Falcon. It would, after all, be the perfect business to ‘legitimize’ the actions of a criminal. He would have known who serviced the victim that night. He probably video recorded all the sessions.”

“So,” Molly began. “…if this Falcon really did own the strip club, and this Falcon really did marry the witness to the execution he ordered, how did he find her? And once he found her, how did he get her to marry him? And WHY did he marry her? Only to kill her later?”

“Once the witness is admitted into WitSec…” Abigail, who was still on the line, answered. “…they don’t ever go back to their home. They are immediately erased, a bit like the movie though not with as many cool gadgets. We work very hard to ensure that nobody discovers them.”

“Have any in WitSec ever been uncovered?”

“Yes but…” Abigail paused then gasped. “…oh no. That’s not…”

“What?” John asked.

Abigail sighed over the phone. “Over the years there have been very few witnesses who have been discovered by those people we were hiding them from. Some were accidental but there have been a few moles in the program.”

“Moles?” Molly asked.

Abigail sighed again. “There had been a few agents who found the lure of money more important than keeping their witness alive. What you have to remember is that the majority of the witnesses in WitSec aren’t as innocent as witnesses to a murder. While she was a stripper, Michelle wasn’t involved in criminal activity. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But the majority of people in the program have done some very bad things. Instead of wanting to change their lives, and get out of their criminal activities, they use WitSec, and the promise of testifying against the criminals, as a means to turn state’s evidence in exchange for a lighter or no sentence at all. The prevailing feeling amongst the moles is that these people are bad and it’s just one bad person killing another one. Those agents are as low as the people we are protecting our witnesses from. We took this job and we are sworn to do it.”

“So what you’re saying is that your top-secret witness protection program is as reliable as a diabetic in a chocolate shop?” Lestrade shrugged when everybody looked at him as if he were an insensitive bastard. “What? It’s the best I could come up with in such short notice. Not all of us are as brilliant as you Sherlock.”

“You’re bloody right about that.”

“My guess would be that this wasn’t an accident.” Mycroft said.

Abigail huffed with indignation. “It wasn’t my fault. I never talk about my witnesses to anybody. And I’m not the mole.”

“I don’t believe you are,” Sherlock said without a hint of sarcasm. He looked at the phone for a moment. “But I think you suspected something. You gave me the letter to decipher and not your people. Why is that?”

“I needed your help and this seemed the best way to go about doing just that.”

“Yes but you went to me first. If you didn’t suspect something you would’ve run home to Daddy first.”

“When a witness is murdered while in WitSec custody, everybody is suspicious of everybody. Being suspicious is what makes us so great at our jobs, believe it or not.”

“Then how do we determine if there was a mole or not?”

“Dr. Watson, I will need to learn if there is a common relationship between the most recent moles; if they worked with the same people, had the same supervisor. If there is the person or persons in common must be vetted.”

“We’ll take care of that,” Mycroft volunteered.

“In the meantime I am on my way to Zurich. When our job is through there I will be working on the mole connection. It will take time as I have to do this without anybody knowing what is happening. But I’ll see you in a few hours.” CLICK.

“Oh no…” Molly said, heavily falling into a nearby airplane seat.

“What is it?” Lestrade asked, moving to sit beside her. 

“I just can’t believe that Eric Livingston is this Falcon. He seemed like such a genuinely nice guy. How could he coldly marry Michelle, make her fall in love with her, make a child, all the purpose of killing her?”

“Molly,” Sherlock stood in front of her, at first nervously moving from foot to foot until he took the seat on the other side of her. Much to her surprise he continued. “This Falcon is a psychopath. He has no regard for anybody or anything. Psychopaths don’t feel anything but they are charming and they can change themselves to adapt to any situation. Because not only you believed him but so did Michelle, only proves how dangerous he is. I am positive that anybody would have, and did, believe him.” Molly sat dumbstruck at what she was hearing. Could Sherlock Holmes actually be comforting her instead of calling her an idiot for believing Falcon? Sherlock turned away when he felt her staring at him. “But the question is: why did he wait this long to kill her? They raised a child for ten years. Could it be to lull her into a false sense of security? Or did Falcon have another plan, one that took this many years to come to fruition?”

Watson was mulling over the situation. “So do you think the body in the hotel is Falcon’s?”

“I have no idea John,” Sherlock said as he turned to the door of the plane. “But I need to see that body.”

…..

RING, RING. RING, RING. Marshal Turner looked away from her packing to her caller ID. Blocked number. Her gut told her to answer the call. “Hello?”

“Good evening once again Marshal Turner.”

“Two calls in one night? You must be nervous.”

“I gather you deciphered the letter.”

“Yes I did. Why are you calling me again?”

“Because you don’t have much time Miss Turner.”

When he didn’t say anything else, Abigail tried another tactic. “If Eric Livingston really is Falcon, and he is dead, why are you doing this? I’m assuming you killed him; why didn’t you just leave it at that?”

“Before Falcon died he set in motion a series of events that will destroy not only WitSec but the security of any future participant.”

“Why do you care? I’m assuming you’re a bad guy. Don’t you want the good guys gone?”

“That hurts Abigail. When did you become so hard and cynical?”

“When bastards like you take out witnesses, especially my witness who came to become a very good friend of mine.”

“Don’t blame me Agent Turner. I am not responsible for Michelle’s murder.”

Abigail paused. “But why should I believe you, about anything? Why should I believe that Eric Livingston is really Falcon? You haven’t provided me with proof. For all I know this is a bloody sick joke.” 

PAUSE. “You are right. You have no proof. So let me give you some.” PAUSE. “Falcon’s real name is Alex Slezak. Camel is Alex Slezak’s fraternal twin, Aaron. Their shell corporation is the Nestling Corporation. Your Mycroft Holmes was right; the Social Security number belongs to a Nester Coburn. Take down this social security number.” She quickly grabbed the notepad she kept beside her bed and scribbled the numbers he rattled off. “Nester Coburn is the step uncle of the Slezak twins. If you want to know why I am doing this, look up April 1993, Emmanuelle Archer in Kansas City.” CLICK.

Abigail sat on the bed, stunned with what she was given. Could this be real? How did this man know so much about a criminal organization that seemingly took great pains to ensure their anonymity? This ‘Al’ said he knew more about Falcon than Falcon realized. Could Falcon, a man who clearly used third persons to do his dirty work, let somebody other than a theoretical (as it hadn’t been proven) twin brother get close enough to know so much about him?

Unless… 

Abigail’s eyes widened at the possibility. Unless this person was as close to Falcon as, say, a fraternal twin brother? Could she really have been talking with this Camel? If so, why is he aiding the police? Not only would this information implicate his twin brother but himself just as well. As far as Abigail knew this Camel, or Aaron Slezak, was in up to his eyeballs. And who is Elizabeth Archer? 

Abigail pulled out her laptop and did some quick digging. She found some news articles on Emmanuelle Archer in Kansas City. The news article led Abigail to check her encrypted WitSec database. Sure enough, there was Emmanuelle Archer. Formally Tina Garcia-Benito of Florida, Emmanuelle had been admitted into WitSec after turning state’s evidence in the prosecution of some of the leaders of a major drug cartel in Miami. Like Michelle, Emmanuelle was relatively innocent compared to other witnesses. Digging further Abigail found that Emmanuelle was murdered, in April 1993, in a car explosion while living in Kansas City. The interesting aspect of the case was that, after an exhausted investigation, no evidence of a mole, an information leak, or even an accident occurred.

The woman died under highly suspicious circumstances.

Despite all of the information she uncovered, it was what was mentioned, and almost overlooked in Abigail’s initial scan of the earliest news story, that sent Abigail scrambling out of her flat, luggage in hand, more anxious than ever to get to Zurich.


	18. Chapter 17

**CHAPTER 17**

_Abigail’s eyes widened at the possibility. Unless this person was as close to Falcon as, say, a fraternal twin brother? Could she really have been talking with this Camel? If so, why is he aiding the police? Not only would this information implicate his twin brother but himself just as well. As far as Abigail knew this Camel, or Aaron Slezak, was in up to his eyeballs. And who is Emmanuelle Archer?_

_Abigail pulled out her laptop and did some quick digging. She found some news articles on Emmanuelle Archer in Kansas City. The news article led Abigail to check her encrypted WitSec database. Sure enough, there was Emmanuelle Archer. Formally Tina Garcia-Benito of Florida, Emmanuelle had been admitted into WitSec after turning state’s evidence in the prosecution of some of the leaders of a major drug cartel in Miami. Like Michelle, Emmanuelle was relatively innocent compared to other witnesses. Digging further Abigail found that Emmanuelle was murdered, in April 1993, in a car explosion while living in Kansas City. The interesting aspect of the case was that, after an exhausted investigation, no evidence of a mole, an information leak, or even an accident occurred._

_The woman died under highly suspicious circumstances._

_Despite all of the information she uncovered, it was what was mentioned, and almost overlooked in Abigail’s initial scan of the earliest news story, that sent Abigail scrambling out of her flat, luggage in hand, more anxious than ever to get to Zurich._

 

Forty-five minutes later the group arrived at the hotel where Eric Livingston/Falcon died but, before anybody could get out of the rental car, John took a moment to look at the group of people. John startled the carful of people by laughing out loud. Sherlock, in a quite unusual state of discombobulation (this whole Molly situation was really sending him for a loop), shot the Army Doctor a glare. “What are you laughing at John?”

“Look at us, this ragtag team of avengers. We’ve got an Army Doctor, a Pathologist, The British Government…” Mycroft scowled at this. “…the World’s Only Consulting Detective and one actual police officer. We’re about to crash a foreign crime scene of the possible murder of a possible crime leader of a decidedly inconspicuous Midwestern American city, and all I really want is a package of cheese crisps. What does that mean?”

The others stared at the Army Doctor for a bit, trying to decide if he was simply insane or just needed a nap, when suddenly Molly began giggling. Her terrible lack of sound sleep fueled the humor, which turned into a deep, cleansing cackling that quickly spread around the car. Even Mycroft cracked a smile before composing himself, hoping none in the car noticed his lack of composure. Once the group was settled, the atmosphere was… different. The laughter seemed to clear the air, having released the tension and reducing the stress.

As they made their way to the yellow crime tape blocking the front entrance of the hotel, Sherlock stopped Molly’s progress, causing them to lag behind the others. Unable to meet her eyes he studied the slacks of the workers guarding the tape as Molly looked at him with confusion. “What is it Sherlock?”

“Molly, I think I know what you are doing.”

“What am I doing?”

He ventured a quick peek at the woman whom he’d finally fully realized had captured the heart he didn’t even know he had. What a confusing few days; no wonder he was playing his ‘B’ game, whatever that really meant. He’d heard it once on one of those crap American TV shows, Law and Order. Really, had those writers ever stepped foot onto a crime scene? He’d simply shrugged the show off, knowing that they were Americans who couldn’t tell their, well, whosits from their whatsits. It didn’t matter what the whosits and the whatsits were; Americans were all alike. Sherlock thought maybe a ‘B game’ had something to do with sports but given how little…

“Sherlock? Are you there? Sherlock?” Molly’s voice brought him back to the present. 

He suddenly made a decision, one that was truly a leap. Not quite knowing how or if he could do it (which, in itself, scared the living crap out of him), Sherlock began to pace. This surprised Molly; Sherlock only paced when he was seriously contemplating something. Whatever he had to tell her was seemingly pretty serious. “Molly, I think about you and the affect you have on me all the time.” He ran his fingers through his hair in an attempt to tamp down the nervous energy. All Molly could do was stare at the path his long, sleek fingers took as they carded through the shiny, thick locks. Damn that man… But Sherlock wasn’t finished as he stopped in front of her, grabbed her by the shoulders, and hauled her to him, planting his lips on hers. At first she struggled but it didn’t take long for his magic lips (with a little help from his tongue) to take over and he quickly subdued the hellcat, leaving the hellcat a quivering mass of femininity. It affected him as much as it did her. He slowed the kiss, withdrawing his lips just enough to caress hers as he muttered “I must speak the truth because it’s affecting my work. I, um…” He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against hers.

And Molly knew, instantly, what he was going to say. Given that he didn’t take any of these emotions or the wordage behind them lightly, she knew he wasn’t lying. While it certainly wouldn’t make up for anything (well… ok, everything; it would certainly make up for something), she didn’t think he was trying to make up for past wrongs either. She realized he was trying to relieve himself of the burden of it. While that, in and of itself, was purely selfish, the sentiment behind it wasn’t. And Molly finally realized… 

she’d won. 

She’d WON. 

Molly Hooper, meek Molly Hooper, the woman who brought the mad Consulting Detective coffee whenever he visited her morgue and whom became tongue-tied around the man who defeated the world’s most successful Consulting Criminal by beating him at his own game…

…had WON!

Molly Hooper brought the man to his proverbial, and metaphorical (though she really didn’t doubt that she could do it), knees. She’d so confounded the great Sherlock Holmes, so discombobulated and upset the apple cart, shaken up his deductions of her, that he had no choice but to deal with his feelings. Sure, she knew he felt that way; otherwise, why would he have continued to bother? If she wasn’t, somewhat, special, or even precious, to him in some way, he wouldn’t have continued to come back for more. And, much to his chagrin, the man was too sentimental to use this woman, whom he’d considered a friend (though not openly) before they had begun to sleep together, for casual sex. Otherwise he wouldn’t have opened up himself like he had done in the first place. No, she knew, and could see that he was just admitting it to himself, even if he never mentioned it to her, that what he told her was simply the beginning of the first real sentimental relationship of his life.

And Molly’s heart burst with the privilege of being That One.

But she wasn’t going to prod him; he had to admit it himself.

When Molly didn’t say anything, Sherlock opened his eyes and leaned away, studying with fascination as hers watered with emotion. Her eyes had always been so expressive, saying so much more without words than with them. He opened his mouth to say…

“Oh for Heaven’s sake, dear brother, hurry up and tell the girl you love her. We need you in here!!”

Molly snorted to keep her laughter to herself but Sherlock, whose neck was now a glorious tomato red, couldn’t meet her eyes directly. It was only when she framed his face with her hands and muttered, “What did you wish to tell me?” that his eyes met hers.

Giving her another lingering kiss, he muttered against her lips, “I do Molly. I do love you, very much. And…” He paused and looked as deeply into Molly’s eyes as he’d never looked into another person’s before. “…and…”

“Sherlock,” Molly whispered, a smile on her face. The joy she thought she would feel should she ever hear those words leave his mouth was there but it was tempered. Molly Hooper had grown up and perhaps hardened. She wasn’t the sentimental fool who took care of Sherlock all that time ago. While elated, perhaps beyond words, with his admission, it was no longer enough. She just didn’t know when ‘enough’ was. “Thank you Sherlock.” With a smile she stepped away, turned and followed in the other’s footsteps, leaving a confused Sherlock behind to ponder just what happened.

…..

Marshal Turner managed to catch the government flight her boss had arranged for her and she arrived in Zurich an hour after the others. During the flight, the missing pieces of the dossier Abigail had been trying to build had come together, thanks to the brilliant bloodhound efforts of the US Marshal support team. They really were the smartest group of people she’d ever worked with.

By the time she arrived at the crime scene, the disturbance had already settled, as the bare minimum of emergency personnel and vehicles were still at the hotel. Abigail was escorted to the room, and the door shut behind her, she found the group huddled around the body. As she wasn’t immediately noticed, Abigail took a moment to survey the scene in front of her. Mycroft Holmes (what the devil was he doing there?!) had his back to the door though she could see he was texting; his brother Sherlock was kneeling beside the body, examining the body closely with a smallish magnifying glass and was, more often than actually examining the body, sending concerned yet yearning looks toward Molly Hooper who was weeping in the arms of John Watson. It was the extremely handsome, older gentleman standing beside Sherlock that noticed Abigail first.

“And who are you?” 

Abigail’s stomach involuntarily fluttered at the handsome man. Because she had been keeping up the façade of marriage, she hadn’t been on a proper date for at least three years. While her ‘husband’ was nice, she knew he was gay. Mr. and Mrs. Turner or Winthrop, or whatever their names were at the moment, were as close as two people in their particular position could be. She didn’t know much about his personal life, like he didn’t know much of hers, and neither decided not to know what the other was involved in. But Abigail was certainly lonely and this man, with the overcoat, the beautiful dark eyes and the closely cropped salt and pepper hair, did very strange things to her insides. Clearing her throat she moved to speak but Sherlock beat her to it.

Sherlock, looking at the closed door, smiled. “Ah, Marshal Turner, glad you could join us.” He stood up and pocketed the magnifying glass. “I believe you know just about everybody here. This man…” Sherlock pointed to the gentleman beside him who was, by then, sending her clearly interested looks. “…is Detective Inspector Gary Lestrade.”

“GREG! GREG! How many times do I have to tell you it’s GREG?!?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but looked to the body. “As you can see, very conveniently, the face got the majority of the burns.” She knelt beside him and studied it. “The Swiss authorities are expediting the blood, DNA and teeth samplings for a positive identification. Molly positively identified this ring…” He handed her an evidence bag and Abigail immediately gasped. She knew that ring from anywhere, having spent enough time with the Livingstons. “…and I can see you know this ring as well…” Abigail nodded. “…as having been worn by Eric Livingston.”

“The Falcon, you mean?” The room grew quiet. Abigail stood up, threw a smile to Mycroft, then said, “Did you know that the Falcon and The Camel are fraternal twins? Falcon’s real name is Alex Slezak, and the Camel is Aaron Slezak.” The Holmes boys studied her with a doubtful eye; Molly could only stare with a dumbfounded look on her face; Lestrade was completely confused; and it was John who recovered first. “Just how the hell do you know that?”

“My anonymous caller contacted me before I left.” 

“Anonymous caller?! Isn’t that convenient?” Lestrade exclaimed with a somewhat bitter laugh. “You seem to have a lot of knowledge about something so secretive. For all we know you can be in on this and using the excuse of an anonymous caller to cover your tracks. Just how do you really know all of this?”

“For once Lestrade is right…” Sherlock said leaving the man to shoot daggers at Sherlock’s back. “…just how do you know this? You’ve never mentioned an anonymous caller before. For all we know you’re in on this up to your eyeballs. What makes you think we can trust you?”

Abigail, knowing her true position in this entire fiasco, simply stared the younger detective down, without flinching. With a small smile, she said, “You don’t know if you can trust me. I haven’t given you anything to make you trust me and anything I say to refute it you can easily dismiss. You have to decide for yourself. All I can give you is what I know. The anonymous caller is the man who wrote the cypher. He’s an American and he gave me clues to help me solve it…”

“Really? You needed clues to solve it? You aren’t as clever as you think you are.” Sherlock pointed to Molly who was watching the whole thing play out in fascinated frustration. “Molly figured it out without help from an anonymous source.” 

“I believe the anonymous caller is the Camel.”

“And what makes you believe that?”

Abigail smiled then turned to Mycroft. “Does Nester Coburn ring a bell??”

Mycroft straightened and stared at her critically. “Just how do you know that name?”

“This social security number he gave me…” And she handed Mycroft the piece of paper she’d scribbled the number on. “…belonged to a Nester Coburn who had been dead for many years prior to your discovery of him. How much research had you done on Nester?”

Mycroft knew exactly who he was dealing with in Abigail Turner. He knew her boss and the kind of work she did. And he knew he could trust her, as much as he could trust anybody outside his inner circle. So he gave her what he knew. 

“He was a taxi driver in Chicago. Other than the typical speeding tickets, he had no criminal record. He paid his taxes, went to church, and married a woman named Arlene Jackson.”

“What do you know about her family?”

Mycroft shrugged. “She didn’t have any family except a much younger sister, Janis, who had been placed for adoption six weeks after she was born. Arlene’s mother was a prostitute and the baby was conceived through an indiscretion with a wealthy political figure, at least that was the rumor.”

Abigail’s eyebrow rose. “You have done your homework Mr. Holmes.”

“But, or so it’s been said, the man promised to take care of mother and child but, when the baby was born, he went back on the promise and left them high and dry. So the mother gave the baby up for adoption and left town. Arlene was fifteen years older than the new child so the mother didn’t need to take care of her. From there the trail stopped. All records of the adoption had burned in a fire at the county courthouse of the small rural county the baby had been born into.” 

“Convenient, don’t you think?” Mycroft’s eyebrow rose but left it at that. “The Marshals found out who Arlene and Janis really were. Arlene was Janis’ mother, not sister. She was fifteen when she had the child and moved away from the small county in Indiana. After Janis grew up, she learned she was adopted and went searching for her family. The only relative she found was Arlene, who introduced herself as Janis’ sister. They stayed in touch and, after Janis met William Slezak, had fraternal twin boys, Alex and Aaron. To this day the only one who knows that Arlene is Janis’ mother is Arlene herself and the court system who, not only archived the records with the county but also archived in the little town Janis was born in. Nobody paid much attention to this.”

“So that’s the connection between the Slezaks and Coburn. But what makes you think the caller is the Camel?” Molly asked. The poor girl was going through a myriad of emotions but, at the moment, she was dealing with her thoughts about Abigail and who the woman really was… or could be.

“My anonymous caller told me to look into a case from April 1993, an Emmanuelle Archer in Kansas City. Emmanuelle was in the Witness Protection Program. In April 1993 she was murdered in Kansas City, where she’d been living for ten years. It was later discovered that her cover had been compromised and she was murdered by the Miami drug cartel she was supposed to be protected from.” Abigail pulled out a thick folder from her oversized handbag. She extracted a newspaper clipping and handed it to Sherlock. He studied it for a moment then looked at Abigail.

“What is this?”

“A picture from the funeral.” She looked over at Molly. “Molly, come take a look at this.” 

On shaky legs, John helped her toward the picture and Molly studied it for a moment. “Who is this?”

“This…” Abigail pointed to a crying man in the photograph. “…was her husband.” 

Molly shrugged. “Ok…?”

“From what the Marshals knew, her husband never knew his wife was the former girlfriend of a Miami drug lord who was in the Witness Protection Program because she had turned state’s evidence against said boyfriend. They led a very quiet life, at least from what the Marshals knew. And when she was killed, it was never determined how her position was discovered. They never found evidence to implicate her handler for any wrong doing.” Abigail extracted another photograph. “This may help you. Here’s another photograph of her husband.” 

When Molly took one look her eyes widened and her mouth dropped. “It… it can’t…”

Sherlock, clearly concerned for Molly, stepped behind her and placed his hands on her upper arms to steady her. “What? What is it?”

“Molly, do you know who this is?” Lestrade asked from his view beside Sherlock.

Molly’s eyes fluttered to Abigail’s and she pointed to the picture. “This… this…” 

Abigail nodded. “Yes, that isn’t the husband. The Marshals knew him as the husband’s brother.”

“But that’s…”

“Who is it Molly?”

“That’s Eric!” By now the woman was lapsing into a semi-hysterical state. Sherlock did the only thing he could think of: turning her around he took her face in his hands and gently kissed her. The group looked on, some in shock, others doubtful it would work. But it did. “Molly…” Sherlock mouthed her name against her own, caressing his lips in a soothing way. It sent a strange balm of comfort over her and her breathing slowed. If anything it made the girl more dizzy and she hung on to Sherlock’s great Belstaff for her life.

Once the girl was calm Abigail looked at the others in the group. “Yes, this other man is Eric Livingston, or Alex Slezak. His brother, Aaron, was married to a woman in the Witness Protection Program, and it is my firm belief that Alex had something to do with her death. I believe that Aaron found out about it and killed Alex.”


	19. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters are not mine. The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don’t get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing! 
> 
> This story is un-betaed.

**CHAPTER 18**

_Once the girl was calm Abigail looked at the others in the group. “Yes, this other man is Eric Livingston, or Alex Slezak. His brother, Aaron, was married to a woman in the Witness Protection Program, and it is my firm belief that Alex had something to do with her death. I believe that Aaron found out about it and killed Alex._ ”

 

Most of them looked at Abigail as if she were insane; Sherlock, having pulled from Molly but turned to Abigail, was studying her while processing where she was going with it.

“Then why would Aaron want to give you this information himself? Wouldn’t he want to keep this quiet?”

“Normally, Dr. Watson, I would play the sentimentality card here. If Aaron was so overcome with grief at the death of his wife, he would stop at nothing to exact revenge. And, if he knew who caused the death, namely his own brother, he could be patient and work out the perfect time.”

“But, Marshal, I think the real question is: how was Alex responsible for Emmanuelle’s death?” 

“Wow, Gabe, you’re on a roll…” Sherlock was suddenly feisty, which, for some reason, John was eternally grateful to see. It meant the Sherlock they all knew (not sure about loved though) was still around. Lestrade didn’t know whether to correct him or simply punch him in the nose but Sherlock moved away, for good measure. Sherlock looked at Abigail. “Why would you think Alex had anything to do with Emmanuelle’s death?”

Abigail opened, then shut, her mouth. Could she really tell him she had a gut feeling? But, given the look on Sherlock’s face, she had a feeling he knew her answer. Clearing her throat, she said, “The anonymous caller said he was the last person Falcon would ever suspect of knowing the information. If the caller really was Camel, this wouldn’t be true…”

“…but it would be true if the caller were really referring to him being the last person to ever spill the beans about the information.” Sherlock finished and she nodded. “So, let’s assume…”

“You never assume…”

“Yes I do, John; I just never admit to it being an assumption. I never vocalize my assumptions.” John rolled his eyes. “Let’s assume, for a moment, that the caller is the Camel. Let’s also assume, for a moment, that Aaron had a very good reason to rat his brother out, which would probably lead to the murder of his brother. What had he done to make his brother’s wife’s location become known to the cartel?”

“Are we even sure it was the cartel who killed her?” 

“Yes Doctor Watson,” Mycroft said. “The drug lord whom Emmanuelle put in prison has been known to boast that he took care of the ‘nagging problem’.” 

“You’re just full of all sorts of answers, aren’t you Mycroft?” The daggers Big Brother shot Little Brother were reminiscent of their childhood nursery.

“OH!” They all turned to Abigail, who had exclaimed the word rather abruptly. “What?” Lestrade asked.

“How could I have forgotten?!? The anonymous caller also said that, before Eric/Alex died he started something, a series of events, that would destroy not only The Witness Protection Program but that of the security of anybody joining in the future.” She looked around the group. “What could this mean?”

“Wonderful. Sounds like we’ve got two problems.” John said offhand.

“Two?” Molly asked.

“One, is this really Alex Slezak?” John pointed to the body. “And two, what did Alex do?”

“The moles,” Mycroft said quietly. “The moles in the Witness Protection Program. Marshal Turner, recently you said there had been moles in the system…”

“It’s not like there was a huge spike in the number of moles or something,” Abigail interrupted, ignoring the Older Holmes’ look of exasperation. “Even before my witness had been eliminated, we, as a whole agency, had been put on higher alert lately, without warning or any explanation of why. The pressure has been greater, which is largely why I didn’t turn the letter over to my department. I didn’t, and still don’t, completely trust the agency, and I know that, though it isn’t my fault, I’m in hot water for letting my witness die.”

Mycroft gave the woman a (somewhat) patient smirk. It was how he chose to handle those less intelligent of the species. “Could it be possible that Alex and Aaron were planning on infiltrating the program?”

“Oh!” Sherlock clapped his hands together and his eyes widened. He began pacing, circling the group, his mind running a million miles faster than the rest of the group’s, his coat flapping behind him like a flag waving in the breeze. “Of course! That’s PERFECT! Alex Slezak gets the information from his very high price moles, who never know who they are dealing with…”

“Just like the contracted hit man who went after Miss Hooper…”

“DOCTOR Hooper!”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “DOCTOR Hooper. He never revealed any information about who he was working for.”

“Perhaps because he had none.” Sherlock paused, his eyes closed and his hands steepled in front of him. “The anonymity gives him the perfect means of getting what he wants…”

John’s eyes widened. “Not another Moriarty!”

Sherlock cocked his head. “Sort of, only without the vengeful hubris. Falcon…”

“What is it with you and criminal masterminds anyway?” John interrupted, clearly exasperated that they might be, yet again, going up against a man bigger than his criminal britches. “Do you like carry this pheromone that, when released, challenges any and every potential baddie to double down in their badness efforts? Do you change seemingly ordinary criminals into people who want to do really, really bad things to you and the rest of the world?”

The look Sherlock threw his friend could’ve peeled paint off the walls but John had learned to ignore those looks. It never seemed to help to challenge Sherlock anyway. “Falcon isn’t trying to prove that he’s better than the rest of the world; for the Falcon it is a simple matter of money. He has always…”

“I mean, Sherlock, why can’t you just stick to ordinary criminals, hmm? They are a lot less safer and don’t, statistically, drive you to jump off of buildings.”

“Safer?” He threw John one of his screwed-up, confused looks. “Safer is boring. Besides, the world needs a criminal mastermind, more than one, really, to keep everybody on their toes and remind them what they shouldn’t be doing with their lives.” Sherlock ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “Here I go, jumping off of a building to save YOUR ass and all I get is a lecture about how I turn people into master criminals?!? Excuse me.” Sherlock stuck his nose in the air and made to march out the hotel room door when Molly put her hand on his arm to stop him. 

“Sherlock…” She softly pled and he stopped. John was surprised at the power she seemed to wield over the usually unwieldy detective. “…he’s frustrated with what happened with Moriarty; we all are. The outcome far exceeded what should have happened. We just…” The pleading, watery brown eyes nearly brought the detective to his knees (not that he would have ever shared that with anybody; he didn’t have a reputation to protect though that was in tatters after the whole kissing display). “…I just can’t go through all of that again.”

Sherlock sighed but took a moment to turn around. When he did he found a roomful (other than the corpse, obviously) of people regarding the detective with a look of surprise. He took a breath before addressing the (alive) people in the room. “The difference between this criminal and Moriarty is this one isn’t coming after me, specifically. I’m not a threat to him. Now that I know what’s going on…”

“Wait a minute; you KNOW?!?” 

“And you would’ve known by now, John, if you hadn’t continued to interrupt me! Now, do you want to know or not?” When he got no response he quickly picked up the train of thought he’d started before becoming rudely interrupted. “Falcon has always worked behind the scenes because he doesn’t WANT the glory for it. He’s much, much smarter and much less reckless than Moriarty. Moriarty was very, very good but his hubris, oh that massive arrogance, was his downfall. Moriarty cared too much about making sure that others, including myself, thought of him, or the myth around him as the Consulting Criminal, as some sort of criminal Demi-God. Or maybe God Himself. That one name, ‘Moriarty’, held weight and breadth amongst the people who needed a job done for them.

But this man, this Alex Slezak, doesn’t even want that. It is what makes him far more dangerous than Moriarty ever was. Slezak is patient, working to set up his empire legally and illegally, all behind the scenes.” Sherlock took the photo that Molly was still holding. “Look at the man. Does he look like a criminal?” He passed the photo to everybody then looked at Molly. “Molly, you lived next door to him. What did Eric Livingston seem like to you?”

“But Moriarty could look ordinary. Look at ‘Jim’ or ‘Richard Brook’.”

“But John, when we met him in the swimming centre, he wore a very expensive suit and slicked back hair. He wasn’t going to a fashion show or even a board meeting; the man was dressing to fit his ego. The man in this picture…” Sherlock pointed to it. “…is at a funeral and he’s intentionally dressed frumpily. Moriarty would’ve pulled up in a black Jag and shined his £1,000 shoes until he could stare at himself in them.” 

Molly shrugged. “Eric, he seemed to love his family but he wasn’t flashy. They had money but I only knew that from Michelle. They lived very simply, very unpretentiously. You would never notice them in a crowd. In fact Eric seemed to work hard to be like that. I think, in some ways, he was embarrassed by his wife who was so different from him. She would be the one who wore flashy jewelry or drove expensive cars, if her husband had encouraged that.”

“But he didn’t. And look at how patient Alex Slezak was. He married the woman who could have pinned his organization for the killing of Georgie Callivario! He made sure she didn’t testify by marrying her, and once his vast operation was in place…” 

“…he had her murdered.” Molly finished.

“Exactly.” Sherlock shook his head. “The brothers were so far behind the scenes that I wouldn’t be surprised if the information they have for sale is solicited on the internet, like on an information Ebay website or perhaps simply a bulletin board…”

“Like a Craig’s List?”

Holmes the Younger nodded but didn’t pause. “…presented in such a way that the casual web surfer would never realize it was a website for dangerous information for dangerous people. Perhaps a solicitation that reads as simply as a request asking if anybody has a clothing pattern for sale or instructions to put a model train together… tens to hundreds of thousands of dollars for that accountant who ratted you out to the police because of your massive tax dodging scheme; the maid who witnessed you killing a rival; the girlfriend who knew too much.” Sherlock began his pacing once again. “He, what, sells it to the highest bidder? But since everything must appear anonymous, it must appear above board so the negotiations must occur away from the general viewing site. Can’t afford to have some bored housewife stumble on the site and overreact when she reads the bidding wars. Nobody else can ever know what somebody pays to have the street address of the neighbor who saw you murder your wife. All quiet, all secret, without anybody knowing it is actually happening and never revealing to the buyers who the sellers really are… and to the sellers who the buyers are. It’s perfect for an organization built on complete anonymity. The Brothers Slezak are, because they must be, the white noise nobody pays attention to because they are concentrating on the dripping faucet in the other room.” Sherlock paused his quick fire deduction. “You have to love Americans; they’ve found a way to market and sell anything.” 

Abigail looked down at the body. “So, given what we know about Alex and Aaron, could this even be Alex?”

“No, it’s not.”

“What makes you so sure, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”

John shook his head. “I wouldn’t ask. I’d just go with it. Makes the experience that much easier.”

Abigail crossed her arms. “And what if all that bodily evidence comes back as identifying him…” She pointed to the body. “…as Eric Livingston?”

“You don’t think a man with as seemingly vast a network of contract killers, henchmen, contacts, even US Marshal moles, couldn’t get somebody to fake the records? Quite frankly, Miss Marshal Girl, I’m rather ashamed in your lack of foresight.”

Abigail opened her mouth to disagree when her phone began to ring. Pulling it out of her back jeans pocket, she took a breath. “It’s him.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow rose. “What makes you think so?”

“This is my Marshal line. The only time I’ve ever received a ‘Blocked’ call on this phone was from him.”

“Well answer it. And put it on speaker phone.”

Sighing she followed Mycroft’s orders. “Hello?”

“Hello Marshal Turner. Speaker phone, huh?”

“Got to keep my hands free.”

“I’m sure you have your hands full in Zurich, you and the Scooby Gang.” She glanced up at Sherlock whose eyebrow had risen. “Yes, I know you are there with the Holmes boys. And no, Marshal Turner doesn’t work for me. Why would I put a corrupt Marshal through this many hoops? I’m not looking to destroy Abigail’s career. But I wish I had chosen another agent; your Miss Rachel Brooks here has been such a hassle.”

Sherlock took the phone from Abigail. “Ok, what are you looking to do, if not destroy her career?”

PAUSE. “Ooo, you must be one of the Holmes boys. Your posh smugness could have knocked me out.” The voice on the other end chuckled. “I’m looking to settle my score. And I’m going to do it; I’ve waited twenty years.”

“Twenty years? Why twenty years?”

“This is Holmes the Younger, isn’t it? I was very impressed with the whole disappearing act though I’m not surprised Jim drove you to it. I’ve met Jim before and I can tell you, he was an egomaniacal, psychopathic windbag who didn’t know when to quit. Some day you must tell me how you survived the fall.”

“Twenty years? Why twenty years?” 

“Mr. Holmes, I needed a nest egg. Once I had my revenge I am going into obscurity and you will never hear from me again. But I had to think about how I’d support myself in exile. Now I’m ready.”

Sherlock put it close to his mouth. “Well now, Mr. Aaron Slezak, now that I’ve had the honor to finally talking with you, it’s just too bad I couldn’t meet your brother in person…?” He left the question hanging.

PAUSE but they could hear the man grinning. “I’m impressed. Miss Marshal Girl has done her homework. Found the picture of my brother and I at the funeral? Realized that the very man Michelle was married to, the man she fucked, was the very man she was supposed to be hiding from? Don’t you just love irony?”

“And we know about the information-for-sale scheme Alex set up. I’m assuming this man on the floor here isn’t your brother. He has too much to live for to actually be dead, at least by somebody other than your own hands. If anybody deserves to kill your own brother it’s you.” Sherlock paused. “But Alex didn’t actually mean for your wife to die, did he? She was simply a casualty in the, what, testing phase of the operation? Twenty years. It took you twenty years to get this operation going?”

PAUSE. The voice on the other end was gruff and the breathing was much shorter but they heard a very brief grin on the other end of the line. “Irene says hello by the way. She’s become a very nice addition to my network.”

Sherlock’s nose flared and he looked at Molly, a deer-in-the-headlights expression on her face. “Was your wife the first casualty of your greed? And how did that work, exactly? How did you find out who Emmanuelle really was?”

PAUSE. The line was quiet except for the shallowing of the breath on the other line. “I loved my wife, more than myself. I would…”

“Are you even capable of love Aaron?” Abigail asked and everybody took a deep breath.

A sinister growl filled the phone silence. “London Eye. Four hours.”

“Four hours?!? That’s not possible, not from Zurich.”

“I suggest you get your pretty little ass movin’, my dear Marshal. Or Alex will die all over again, this time for good, and you’ll never get the answers you need.” CLICK.


	20. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters are not mine. The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don’t get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing! 
> 
> This story is un-betaed.

**CHAPTER 19**

_A sinister growl filled the phone silence. “London Eye. Four hours.”_

_“Four hours?!? That’s not possible, not from Zurich.”_

_“I suggest you get your pretty little ass movin’, my dear Marshal. Or Alex will die all over again, this time for good, and you’ll never get the answers you need.” CLICK._

 

Aaron clicked off the phone call, his teeth on edge. He really hadn’t counted on them figuring out the Witness Protection scheme this early in the game. After all, while yes he was going to retire once his brother was dead, he wanted a bit of time to settle down and start collecting his share of the profits. The scheme would go on even though Alex would be dead. A bit of his brother’s bravado had rubbed off on him but it seemed to backfire. ‘Too late now,’ he thought and a sudden brief tinge of conscious broke through, reminding him again that what he was doing was wrong, especially since his Emmanuelle died because of the scheme. But by this time, Aaron Slezak, or Camel to the rest of the world, was so filled with hatred for his brother that he didn’t really care about how debauched he’d become. The niggle of conscious was becoming fainter and fainter the deeper into the project they became. 

“If you want your answers Mr. Holmes, you will get them,” Aaron vowed, punching the speed dial number he needed. “It is time to end this.”

“Camel?” Alex asked into the phone as he looked at his bedside clock. His brother rarely called him before 8 a.m. “It’s 6 a.m. What are you doing up? Is something the matter?”

“Of course not. I was thinking about…” He didn’t finish the sentence; he knew that Alex would know what, or who, his brother was thinking about. Aaron cleared his throat. “I realized that I didn’t want to leave London without having seen the London Eye. Care to join me?”

Alex paused. A slight little twinge of guilt hit the criminal mastermind. After all, he still hadn’t come to terms with what his actions had done with his twin’s wife. But he was also a coward who, to that day, hadn’t admitted a mistake he had made since they were fifteen years old. He wasn’t about to fess up to this one, no matter what his brother was going through. 

But for some reason Alex had an odd feeling about this but, as he trusted his brother as he trusted himself, he would do just about anything for Aaron. “Sure. What time?”

Aaron looked at his watch. “How about 10 am? By the ticket booth.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at the hotel.”

“Why don’t we just go together?”

“Nah. I have a meeting with an estate agent here in London at 9 a.m.”

That surprised Alex. “Really? So you’re thinking of moving here?”

Aaron shrugged, even if his brother couldn’t see him. “Yes. I like it here.”

“What about your fuck buddy and the baby?”

Aaron paused, anger twinging his voice. “She got an abortion.”

“She WHAT?!”

“The bitch wouldn’t listen to me and did whatever the hell she wanted. She told me she didn’t want to be stuck with a baby and that it’s my fault she got pregnant.”

“Want me to kill her?”

“No but I want you to blackmail her.” 

Alex laughed. “It would be my pleasure. I have more than enough to bring in a tidy sum. You can use it for a down payment on a flat.”

Aaron laughed bitterly. “See you in four hours.”

…..

As their rental vehicle sped toward the airport and Mycroft was busy on the phone making arrangements for a quick departure, Molly was suddenly scared. “Sherlock, will we make it? Will we be able to end this?” 

The man in question turned to the woman whose head was leaning against the window, her eyes misting with tears. “Why are you crying? Don’t cry. It will all end soon, I promise.”

“But what if it doesn’t? Will I be on the run for the rest of my life? Will I have to be scared to…??” But she didn’t finish as Sherlock took her in his arms and placed her head on his shoulder, her warm breath against his neck shooting fireworks down his spine. That carnal part of himself, which had been held under tight regulation for most of his life, begged for her body around his. Sherlock had, seemingly, come to terms with the fact that it was only Molly’s body that he would crave, probably for the rest of his life. After all, it had only been Molly’s body he’d ever wanted.

“Shuuuush…” He whispered against her ear. “I promise you, Molly, I will make sure you will never be in danger. I will protect you.”

“But how can you…?”

“Do you trust me?”

She pulled away from him to stare into his unwavering pale eyes, the color she had never truly been able to decipher. Some days it was a very pale sky blue; others it was a pale sea green. But whatever color they were at the moment, they were constant and steady, never wavering, never faltering. Molly knew, then, she could trust him once again, this time with everything, more than she had ever given anybody. 

She nodded and whispered, “Completely.”

“And you will never have a reason to doubt. I love you, Molly Hooper, and because I can happily admit it now…” Sherlock smoothed the hair from her forehead. “…I’m no longer afraid of what your big, watery brown eyes or your dimple or when you bite your lip can do to me.” He nuzzled his nose behind her ear and muttered, “I’m trying to solve this as fast as I can so I can fuck you until you scream so loudly until you can’t scream anymore. I’m in pain here, Molly.”

All Molly could do was squeak.

…..

“Hey, are you alright?”

Abigail looked up to see Lestrade beside her, watching her silent contemplations. She shook her head. “No, I’m not. This… this… this wasn’t supposed to happen to me.”

“Was it supposed to happen to someone else?”

She threw him a confused look. “What?”

“It’s not SUPPOSED to happen. Doesn’t mean it won’t. But when it does I’m glad you’re on our side. You’re a hell of a good law enforcement officer, even if you do work for the Yanks.”

She laughed. “I am a Yank you know. I am offended.” Her tone spoke otherwise.

Lestrade gave her a one-shoulder shrug. “If you ever decide to stick around London and need a job, I can make a few inquiries. I know a lot of people.”

“You’d do that for me?”

He shrugged again and she found his shrugs to be inexplicably, and completely, adorable. “Thank you DI Lestrade. That means…”

“Greg.”

“Pardon?”

“Please, call me Greg.”

“Only if you call me…” She paused. “…Rachel.”

“Rachel?”

“My real name is Rachel Brooks. I actually miss it.” She studied him, really studied him, for the first time. “Perhaps it’s time to go back to it.”

Lestrade only smiled.

…..

 

The ‘Scooby Gang’ arrived at the London eye with only a few minutes to spare. They were glad they didn’t arrive any later, for the scene they came across wasn’t the scene they were hoping to find. A tall, heavily built (but not fat) man was staring down a shorter, slighter man, a rather large gun with a silencer pointed at his head. The crowd that ran for cover was now watching, amazed and confused. But some of the ‘braver’ tourists were taking pictures and blogging about it. Sirens were drawing closer and Lestrade quickly got on his phone, giving orders.

Only a skilled negotiator could get a peaceful resolution between the two men… and John was truly scared when Sherlock stepped forward, silently deciding he was the one for the job.

What Abigail wouldn’t have given for an ordinary day, one of those ordinary Marshal days when nobody did anything, where she was working at the design house, nobody knew she was a Marshal and nobody got into trouble. At that very moment she would’ve rather be fitting her pickiest client for a dress than deal with this issue, especially with it being Sherlock taking the lead.

They were screwed.


	21. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **One more chapter after this one! Thank you again for reading!!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters are not mine. The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don’t get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing! 
> 
> This story is un-betaed.

**CHAPTER 20**

_The ‘Scooby Gang’ arrived at the London eye with only a few minutes to spare. They were glad they didn’t arrive any later, for the scene they came across wasn’t the scene they were hoping to find. A tall, heavily built (but not fat) man was staring down a shorter, slighter man, a rather large gun with a silencer pointed at his head. The crowd that ran for cover was now watching, amazed and confused. But some of the ‘braver’ tourists were taking pictures and blogging about it. Sirens were drawing closer and Lestrade quickly got on his phone, giving orders._

_Only a skilled negotiator could get a peaceful resolution between the two men… and John was truly scared when Sherlock stepped forward, silently deciding he was the one for the job._

_What Abigail wouldn’t have given for an ordinary day, one of those ordinary Marshal days when nobody did anything, where she was working at the design house, nobody knew she was a Marshal and nobody got into trouble. At that very moment she would’ve rather be fitting her pickiest client for a dress than deal with this issue, especially with it being Sherlock taking the lead._

_They were screwed._

 

Sherlock turned to the man on the wrong end of the gun. “So, Falcon, I presume?” The man simply cocked an eyebrow without taking his eyes off his brother. “Alex, Alex, Alex, you are a very naughty boy.” He looked over his shoulder at Molly, whose eyes were as round as dinner plates. “I have to admit though, I admire your gumption. Marrying the woman who was supposed to be hiding from you.” Sherlock cocked his head. “I have never seen that before.”

Alex smiled and winked at Molly. “Hello Doctor Hooper. How’s that cabinet I fixed for you?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes but didn’t address what he said. What he really wanted to do was beat the hell out of him but he probably wouldn’t get the answers he wanted if he did. “I have figured it all out, Alex. The Falcon and the Camel. Very interesting choice of names. A secret underground web, so secret nobody knew who they were talking to…”

“Very Keyser Soze, wouldn’t you say?” When Alex didn’t get an immediate answer he looked at Sherlock and smirked. “Oh, the great Sherlock Holmes doesn’t know who that is, does he?”

“Of course I do…”

“But you didn’t know before. Let me guess: one of your associates clued you in. Really, Mr. Holmes, you should keep up with pop culture. It could just save your life.”

By now the backup officers had arrived but Lestrade went to talk to them, utilizing most of them for crowd control. They pushed the majority of the people far enough so most of what was being discussed wasn’t heard by the onlookers. They were given enough privacy so the twins felt comfortable enough to talk.

“Alex…” It was John’s turn to say something, if only to head off the anger Sherlock will inevitably cause. He always did… hence the ‘inevitably’. “…your brother knows you are responsible for Emmanuelle’s death.”

Alex flinched, displaying the one little chink in the armor of the smartass mastermind. He looked at Aaron but, wisely, kept his mouth shut. But Aaron wasn’t about to keep quiet. “You killed her Alex. You killed my wife.”

“Your wife was the girlfriend of a Miami drug lord who turned state’s evidence.”

Even Sherlock knew that was completely the wrong thing to say in a situation like this. Aaron’s eyes flared and he stepped closer, waving the gun with perfect composure. It only scared the onlookers even more. “But she didn’t deserve to die, especially by your greed.”

“But I had no idea Tina Garcia-Benito was Emmanuelle. I swear! Otherwise…”

“What?? You’d grant her mercy, just like the others you sold out to be killed or discovered?”

Alex’s own eyes flared at this. “With which you are profiting from.” He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. It was clear he knew yoga and practiced the breathing exercises extensively. Opening his eyes Alex then narrowed them. “Oh don’t tell me you’ve gone all pussy on me. You’re having a sudden attack of conscience aren’t you?”

“Of course not.”

Alex rolled his eyes. “I’m your twin; I know you better than you think I do. Conscience isn’t going to make you rich enough to live anywhere in the world in the finest clothes and partying with the hottest girls. You want…”

“You don’t KNOW what I want! I want my wife back.”

The brothers silently stared each other down until Sherlock (the man’s sense of timing really needed to be addressed) held up a finger. “Excuse me but I don’t understand how it took you twenty years to develop this Witness Protection information for sale scheme. If Emmanuelle was your first victim of it, why did it take so long?”

“Really, Mr. Holmes, if that is what you think you’re really in the wrong line of work. Try selling shoes at Harrod’s or something.”

John swallowed the snort of laughter at the look of indignation on his friend’s face. “No, boys, he really shouldn’t.”

Alex rolled his eyes as if he were showing pity on the less fortunate. “Tina…”

“EMMANUELLE!!” Aaron roared and his gun shook with the intensity of his anger. Suddenly, for the first real minute, the ‘Scooby Gang’ was seriously scared. “HER NAME IS EMMANUELLE!!”

“You sentimental bastard. Couldn’t even see who she really was, fucking her husband, his twin brother and our Cousin Misha at the same time. She was a whore who deserved what she got.” 

CLICK. The gun cocked and Molly acted on instinct, holding up her hands and pleading, “Wait! Aaron, please! You don’t want to do this.”

“Molly, stay out of it,” Sherlock firmly warned. It’s one thing for him to get shot… he’d ‘died’ once so he had a feeling what happened… but he was not about to let anything happen to her. He wasn’t about to make up space in his mind for that outcome. He just… he just was going to will it not to happen. Yeah, that’s it. It’ll work, right?

“Did you…” Molly couldn’t help herself; she wanted answers. She’d been duped just like Aaron had and she couldn’t, wouldn’t, leave it alone. “… did you, did you even love Michelle?”

“Satin N Lace you mean?” Alex continued to watch his brother, preparing an answer for her while sizing up his odds with his brother. He then shrugged. “I began to develop a certain…” He paused, searching for the right word. “…fondness for her and, over time, it grew. She had her life and I had mine. When Stella came…” A softness filled his eyes, somewhat startling the people close enough to watch the changes on his face. “…I would say it was as stable a life as I ever had. But a year ago it changed. I found out Stella wasn’t mine.”

“How?”

“Did you ever notice her cleft chin?” Molly nodded. “Her mother didn’t have one…” 

Molly’s eyes widened as she studied his face. “Cleft chins are completely genetic. You can only get one if one of your parents has it.”

“Yep. Saw it on an episode of ‘House’ once. Peaked my curiosity. Sure enough, when I asked Michelle about it…” Alex laughed bitterly, all the time never taking his eyes off his brother who was watching him with guarded fascination. “…she admitted to it.”

Sherlock shrugged. “What’s the point? You had your own lives; you certainly weren’t honest with her.”

“It’s the principle Mr. Holmes. She needed to be honest about everything to me…”

Abigail rolled her eyes. _Dear God he deserved to get shot…_

Aaron shook his head and stepped closer, by now only six feet from his brother. This drew a gasp from the crowd who were completely engrossed. “Get back to the subject. Emmanuelle…”

“…was way before I even dreamed of the scheme. Emmanuelle was the inspiration FOR the scheme. Her identification, and her address, were the very first pieces of information my very first snitch gave me.” Alex smirked. “It’s like when a business received their first dollar, or pound, from a customer. The business owner has the bill framed. A bit of poetic justice that my very first snitch in the Witness Protection Program was the one to inform me that my whore of a sister-in-law was also a whore for a drug lord. Seemed rather fitting actually.” 

“Who was the snitch, in the Marshal service?” Abigail chose that moment to speak up for the first time.

“Well, hello there Mrs. Turner or, should I say, Marshal Brooks?” Abigail opened her mouth to protest but Alex cut her off with a smirk. “Oh come on, you don’t really believe that I didn’t know you were Michelle’s handler? What kind of a mastermind do you take me for?” He chuckled. “No, you can thank your boss, Charles Atkins, for his help with Tina.” He smirked. “Or didn’t you know that he was my first snitch and Tina’s handler? Tsk, tsk, you should be awfully careful who you give your information to, especially the people you work for.” Alex didn’t catch Mycroft’s flinch. Seems he had the self-proclaimed smarter Holmes boy fooled as well. And it took a very smart man to fool Mycroft Holmes. “How else do you think I could turn so many in the program?” He shook his head. “Jim Moriarty really threw you folks for a loop. It’s understandable; the man was a psychopath. I’m just really smart.”

“Enough of this shit,” Aaron said and shot his brother in the left leg. The crowd screamed but the makeshift negotiators managed to keep a cool head. Alex doubled over in pain, grasping his leg. Molly, involuntarily, took off to help the wounded man but Aaron swung his gun and fired. Just as Sherlock was screaming for Molly to stop, the bullet exited the gun and slammed into Molly, sending the petite woman to the ground. Uniformed cops tackled the madman with the gun while Sherlock growled and ran to the woman, falling to the ground and cradling her limp body to his own.

“Molly, you stupid girl, what have you done?”

“Sherlock?” She weakly moaned. Through the haze of the intense pain she felt him all around, his breath drawing closer to her face as he lifted her toward him. John arrived and began working on her.

“Why did you do that?”

She smiled weakly then screamed in pain, John’s frantic apologies soothing her. “I’m sorry. I don’t…”

“Yes you do know. You’re a doctor, you had to help. But promise me you’ll never do that again.”

“Only if you promise… ah!!... never to jump off a roof again.” Despite the pain he could see in her rich chocolate brown orbs, Sherlock gasped at her feelings, pouring from her eyes. “I love you, Sherlock, and the pain right now is nothing compared to the… ah!... pain of my heart breaking when you jumped. The thought…” She was starting to get weak so she knew she had to say it before she became unconscious. “…the thought I would never see you again, even though I knew it was all staged, is too much to bear. The next time might not be in your control. Promise…” the conscious walls began to quickly close in. “…me…”

“I promise you, Molly. I love you…” his last words, before she fell asleep, stayed in her heart.


	22. EPILOGUE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **This is the last chapter! Thank you, again, so much for reading.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters are not mine. The characters in this story that you can find in your Sherlock Box Set are the property of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I am not making any money, nor are they hocking my products (which I have none). I don’t get anything from this except the pure enjoyment of writing! 
> 
> This story is un-betaed.

**EPILOGUE**

_“Only if you promise… ah!!... never to jump off a roof again.” Despite the pain he could see in her rich chocolate brown orbs, Sherlock gasped at her feelings, pouring from her eyes. “I love you, Sherlock, and the pain right now is nothing compared to the… ah!... pain of my heart breaking when you jumped. The thought…” She was starting to get weak so she knew she had to say it before she became unconscious. “…the thought I would never see you again, even though I knew it was all staged, is too much to bear. The next time might not be in your control. Promise…” the conscious walls began to quickly close in. “…me…”_

_“I promise you, Molly. I love you…” his last words, before she fell asleep, stayed in her heart._

 

_Three months later…_

Sherlock stuffed his hands into his great Belstaff as he strolled through the corridors of Scotland Yard. 

“You again. What are you doing here?” 

Sherlock simply rolled his eyes at Donovan (really, to hold a grudge THIS long, when he’d long been proven right about Moriarty, was shameful) and continued to his destination. With a frown he found the door shut but, as a closed door never deterred him from anything, he simply walked on in…

…and stopped short. While Sherlock wasn’t necessarily surprised at what he saw, he was horrified he actually HAD to see it.

In the office chair sat Lestrade, shirtless… and a very naked Marshal Abigail Turner, er, Rachel Brooks facing away from Sherlock, riding Lestrade, her head thrown back and her orgasm not too far away, from the looks of things. Sherlock’s sudden entrance wasn’t noticed by the amorous couple at first so, after shutting the door quietly, he took a moment to deduce the couple in front of him. Clearly they had been having sex for awhile (probably since mere moments after the Slezak Standoff) and this clearly wasn’t the first time in this office. Rachel had once been shot in the line of duty… and had a smallish tattoo of a bird on her right bottom cheek.

Just when it looked like both of the rather silent lovers were about to orgasm, a smirking Sherlock exclaimed, though not too loudly to get the couple into trouble, “Wow… you two have the quietest sex I’ve ever witnessed. How does that work anyhow?”

This brought the copulating couple back to the present. “SHERLOCK!!” Lestrade roared as he grabbed his nearby dress shirt to cover her naked form. Sherlock wasn’t worried about anybody interrupting them; the office was accustomed to Lestrade yelling at the consulting detective.

But what surprised Sherlock was Rachel’s inhibition. She wasn’t modest. While she didn’t make it a habit to flash her bits for the world to see, if she was caught naked she simply grabbed her clothes and started to cover up. Taking a moment to recover herself (and muttering a rather wicked oath under her breath), Rachel wrapped Lestrade’s dress shirt around and buttoned it. Lifting herself off, she gave him a lingering kiss then turned to look at the intruder and smirked at his quirked eyebrow. “Well, hello Mr. Holmes. Did you like what you saw??”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock turned his attention to the Detective Inspector, who was buttoning his pants. His tone was fierce. “Where in the world is she?”

“Who?”

“Carmen Sandiego?” Rachel offered with a smirk.

“Who?” The men asked and Rachel waved her hands. “Never mind; it’s an American thing.”

“You know very well who I mean. She was discharged from the rehabilitation facility yesterday. I went over to her flat this morning and found she was gone.”

Both of them eyed him warily. They knew what this man did to their friend and they weren’t about to let him hurt her again. But… there was something… something in Sherlock’s eyes that compelled the lady law enforcement officer. He looked, well, haunted; gutted would be a better word. Almost as if something had been ripped from him. Her eyes widened… _No!! It can’t be… really? He does??_

Rachel tilted her head and regarded the younger man in front of her, though not younger by much. “You are truly and properly in love with Molly Hooper, aren’t you?”

“Would it do me any good to deny it?” Rachel smiled but shook her head. “Then yes, if everybody wants me to admit it, and will leave me alone about it, yes, I am in love with Molly Hooper. And seeing her gone this morning… I couldn’t…”

“She’s a very strong woman. She’s made a remarkable recovery, for her injury being to the shoulder. She told me she has full range of motion now. But, Mr. Holmes, she doesn’t want to see you.”

“Why?” The man was truly confused. He’d confessed his feelings to her; they shared little moments; he’d tried to make amends. Sherlock could’ve sworn this was enough to send her straight into his arms. “I confessed my feelings; isn’t that enough?”

Rachel sighed and shook her head. “You really how no concept of human emotions, do you?” The man in question threw her a confused look but she simply shook her head again. “She’s not mad at you, you know that. You visited her every day, a fact we’re all still a bit confused about. Molly is just very… confused at the moment. Seeing you right now…” She shrugged. “…I don’t know if it will help your case any.” 

Sherlock Holmes wasn’t the Master of Deduction for nothing. Knowing she was testing him, but, somehow, wanting to pass the test oh so badly, he stared her down. “I have to try.”

“Not before I tell you…” Rachel grabbed a folder from a stack to the side of Lestrade’s telephone and handed it to the impatient younger man hopping from foot to foot. “…the Crown Prosecutor’s office told Scotland Yard that information is coming in from all over the world about the Slezaks, their contacts, their snitches and the compromised, or soon to be compromised, witnesses. The Marshals, working with Mi6 and the CIA, are working quickly to move them to safe houses, and we think we’ve saved a lot of people…”

“Scumbags…”

Rachel nodded once. “…yes, scumbags… from being compromised.”

Sherlock studied the woman. “And what about you? Given how closely you worked with Atkins…”

She stood straight and stared the man down. “I was not a snitch. I did my job to the best…”

“…of your ability. Yes you did. And I know you aren’t a snitch; doesn’t mean you won’t be stuck having to help pick up the pieces.” Sherlock smirked. “Looks like you’ll get full cooperation from Scotland Yard on this one.” Lestrade rolled his eyes as Rachel smirked.

“It’s going to be a very, very long time until we get a resolution but I believe we will. We’ll get everybody.”

Sherlock cocked his head. “And what about you?”

“I think…” Rachel shared a smile with the handsome DI. “…I think I’ll stick around here for awhile. I have dual citizenship so all I need is a job.”

“And I have a feeling it won’t be difficult for you to find one, Marshal Brooks. Now…” Sherlock looked at the DI. “…tell me where Molly is.”

…..

Molly had just gotten herself settled onto the sofa with a glass of wine and the television remote control when the door buzzer rang. Given that her location wasn’t a big secret, at least to most people, she knew it could be any number of people. Sighing, she tenuously put a bit of weight on her healing shoulder to heave herself off the sofa and padded to the door. Forgetting to look out the peep hole she swung it open… and caught her breath. 

“Hello Molly.”

The woman sighed and closed her eyes for a few ticks. This was not happening; this was not supposed to happen. It was time for a holiday, a time away from everything, especially one Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Finally she opened her mouth. “Oh I’m going to kill Rachel.”

Sherlock smirked. “Now how did you deduce it was her?”

“It’s a woman thing, you wouldn’t understand.”

Sherlock hopped from one foot to another, anxiety quickly taking over. “What are you doing at your parent’s vacation home?”

Molly opened her mouth to ask how he knew but, sadly, she knew it was futile. “I needed a break from the city. So much happened in such a short period of time… I … I…”

“You needed a break from anything that reminded you of it.” She nodded. “Especially me?” He purposely phrased that like a question. Molly nodded, finding the courage to keep her eyes on him. He shook his head. “That isn’t happening.” With a gentleness neither knew he possessed, Sherlock cradled her head and, slowly, caressed her lips with his own, groaning when they first made contact. 

_Damn that man…_ No amount of cursing him could prevent her lips from reacting to his. Quickly the kiss intensified, and he was cradling her carefully in his arms, mindful of her shoulder. He kissed down her neck, finding one of his favorite spots, one that he knew made her weak in the knees. With a groan she held onto his arms, trying to keep herself from falling over.

Sherlock’s arms tightened around her waist as his mouth traced her rapid pulse. “Molly, I love you more than I have ever loved another person. Please…” He swallowed. “Please forgive me for abandoning you. I knew what I did was wrong when I did it but, um…” His breath shallowed and sped, and she ran soothing hands along his arms. 

“You were scared,” She breathed. “I know you were. When you can’t deal you ignore or you run away. I know you, better than anybody else.” Molly’s eyes softened, love overtaking whatever she felt previously. “You’re incredibly high maintenance.”

“Hardly. I am not pompous, I don’t…”

“Oh yes you are. Other than your brother, you’re the biggest snob I know…” She shushed his refuting mouth with a kiss. “…with the biggest heart. You just keep it hidden in the dungeon of your mind palace. But you have no need to keep anything from me. Please don’t hide. Please don’t run from me. My love, you must know that, for all your faults, I love you so very much.”

And for the third time, Sherlock was speechless. Funny, each and every time had been Molly’s doing. Third time was the charm, perhaps? Perhaps it was time to trust in sentimentality; after all, he had begun to learn to compartmentalize that sentiment during the case. She had motivated him to keep going. That wasn’t such a bad thing, was it??

He coughed and fingered the row of buttons on her cardigan. “Are you well enough? Can you, um…??”

Molly smile, shockwaves shooting through her body. “Oh yes, as long as I can be on top…”

With a growl he kissed her again, allowing her, slowly and gently, to remove his great Belstaff and his suit coat. And before they knew it, they were back to those days when Sherlock stayed with her, those intimate moments when man and woman fused into one, when the woman helped the man forget what had happened to him, and the man helped the woman feel desirable. Only now said woman knew she was loved by said man. It only intensified the already smoldering current between them. With a groan he lifted Molly so she could wrap her legs around his waist, her good arm wrapping around his neck and pulling him for a kiss. “Where to?” He murmured against her mouth.

She grinned. “Lucky for you no stairs. Forward about, oh, 50 feet and it’s the first door on the left.” They stumbled into the bedroom she was using in the vacation home and when the backs of his knees hit the bed he gently set her down so she could sit on her knees to help him undress. When he removed her blouse and uncovered the bullet hole that was now a scar, Sherlock carefully ran his fingers along it, sending shivers down her spine. “Did I hurt you?”

“Oh no. Your touch… does things to me. It always has and it always will.” When he touched those perfect cupid’s bow lips to her wound she gasped, her whole body electric with the currency of their desire. The clothing removal quickly picked up pace and, before either could fully digest what was happening, they were naked, with Molly straddling his stomach, his hands cupping her breasts. “Oh Sherlock…” she moaned and threw her head back while his thumbs gently circled both nipples at the same time. Steadying her hips he sat up and Molly wrapped her legs around his back so they were sitting face to face. 

Sherlock’s eyes were dilated, leaving almost nothing of the pale irises. With those impossibly large, lithe hands he held her head steady as he stared straight into her soul, leaving her quivering with desire. “Molly Hooper, I do love you, so very much. Can we… um…”

While Molly wasn’t ready for a serious conversation, it did help that she could, at least inwardly, laugh at him. He was so darned cute when he tried to be anything remotely sentimental, and right now he was the most adorable thing on the planet. “Yes Sherlock?” Her question was intentionally breathy and sexy, and she smiled when she felt his goose pimples along the groove of his spine. 

“Can we be more than friends?”

Dear heavens, was there a speed slower than baby steps? How about fetal flips? But this was more than he had ever experienced, this tiny step toward a commitment to sentimentality, that she couldn’t possibly make fun of him. And, really, Molly felt honored that she was the Chosen One. With a grin that could have lit up all of London during a blackout, Molly nodded and kissed him fiercely. “Yes, we can be more than friends.” With that the kisses and the careful fondling intensified until both panted and whined with need. 

Pushing the detective to his back, she kissed her way down his chest until her weeping core aligned with his very prominent erection, something that Molly had spent many, many a sleepless night (before their first time and certainly afterwards) dreaming about. With a sigh she sank down, gasping at the fullness of their joining. Sherlock groaned and arched his back. 

“I’ve missed you Molly…”

“You missed me or was it your penis?”

He nudged his hips up and smiled. “What’s the difference?”

“Cheeky bastard…” She threatened. Her hips began a slow, very slow, and torturous, rolling motion, making Sherlock grit his teeth. His hands grasped her hips firmly but, when he tried to change the pace, she shook her head and stopped all together, holding his hips still with her knees, his throbbing erection held still between her slick, overheated walls.

“Molly…” She grinned at his painful, plaintive plea. Just to establish the boundaries, Molly squeezed her muscles around him, making Sherlock groan in painful arousal. “…Molly, I do love this new side of you…” he was weak and nearly overwhelmed by what this woman was doing to him, “…the confident woman who takes control…”

“Yes Sherlock…” He yelped when she wet her thumbs and pressed them against his needle point nipples.

“But why can’t you be weak and submissive in the bedroom? It would be a lot easier on me.” The quirked lips and the genuine look of painful arousal made her soften, just a touch, toward his predicament. But only a touch.

“Why indeed?” She ignored his request, retaining complete control and, in fact, becoming hell bent on revenge for such impertinence. With an evil grin, which caused Sherlock to suck in a somewhat excited breath, Molly cradled her small breasts and held them out to him, as if offering them to him. As her fingers began stimulating her nipples, and her knees held his increasingly forceful movements at bay (very well, they both added), his hand left her hip to cover one breast but she slapped it away with a crack that made him even harder, if that were possible. Molly gasped as he grew even larger within her, causing her to involuntarily contract around him and Sherlock arch off the bed in an agonized groan.

“Molly, please, please…”

And the woman couldn’t take anymore herself. She nodded and began moving, this time quite a bit faster than when they started. With her good arm she encouraged him to sit up, like they had before they started, so she could get a different angle. When he did she hung on as she gave up to him, not submissively but as a woman in too much pain to continue the teasing, if only for her own welfare. Letting him set the pace, she watched him watch his erection as it moved between her wet curls. Molly sunk her fingers into his long curls and threw back her head, her orgasm suddenly eminent. 

Taking her mouth with his, Sherlock trailed one long index finger to her bundle of overactive nerves and, with a couple of quick flicks, sent his young pathologist hurtling into the void, screaming and squeezing him with all she had. He soon followed, groaning and sighing. They fell back onto Sherlock’s back, Sherlock cradling her shoulder to lessen the impact. 

They lay nearly motionless for a few minutes, only her foot tracing his leg and his fingers tracing her spine.

“Nice to see you are healing properly Molly.”

And, with that, she knew they would heal properly. Together.


End file.
